


The Way They Were

by Asidian



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Coping, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fighting to Survive, Fix-It, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Nightmares, Plot, Poor Prompto, Self Confidence Issues, Terrible Plans, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-01
Updated: 2017-06-04
Packaged: 2018-09-21 09:07:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 53,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9540920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asidian/pseuds/Asidian
Summary: Ten years ago, it's the middle of the afternoon.High above Alstor Slough, the sky is a brilliant edge-of-summer blue, so bright it hurts to look at. Clouds make tiny white smears against it, like whipped cream on top of one of Iggy's meticulously constructed cakes. And there, hanging in the vault of the heavens, is the sun.Prompto stares up at it, stunned into silence. It burns his eyes, but he squints and raises a hand above him and peeks through the fingers, not quite able to look away. He stays like that for a long time – so long his eyes water.He tells himself that's all it is.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers, guys.
> 
> This fic happened because it kind of broke my heart that Prompto gets rescued and tells everyone that all he wants is for things to go back to normal, and then Noct gets swallowed by the Crystal and everything goes neatly to hell for the next ten years.
> 
> So I wrote the neatly to hell part of the next ten years. ...and then kept going, into the fight to restore some of what they've lost.

"I just hope that things can stay the way they were."

Prompto says it on the tail end of the worst week in his entire life. He says it in the middle of an industrial complex that's all hard lines – harsh metal and artificial light and Ardyn's voice, in stereo, over the intercom. He says it while he's half-starved, barely on his feet, and he means it with every scrap of honesty he possesses.

He misses it already – long drives in the Regalia, with the sun heating the leather seats and the wind in his hair.

Prompto wants those days back again, cramming into a tent too small for the four of them, playing cards late into the night. He wants Ignis, whole and well, managing food-mag perfect dinners over a simple wood fire like it's not a miracle and a half. He wants Noct falling asleep halfway through the meal, and Gladio, grousing like it's a chore, carrying him off to the tent.

He's never had friends like them before.

He's never had _friends_.

The thought of losing them feels like a Naga's wrapped a coil around his throat, scaled and serpentine – like she's tightening, inch by inch, until his breath burns in his lungs.

"I just hope that things can stay the way they were," he tells them, and he means it. He means it more than he's meant anything, ever.

For a couple of hours, he even starts to think he might get that wish.

Then the daemons descend in wave upon wave of horror, and Ardyn's laughter fills the room, and when they reach the Crystal, it's just in time to see that Noct is gone.

 

* * *

 

The first year's rough.

Like, 90% of the population rough.

They're just not ready for it; the daemons flood into what once were peaceful towns, crushing through the civilian populations like a rock slide bearing down on a lone hiker.

Cindy rigs some pickups with ultra-bright headlights, and they go together, the three of them, to pick up survivors. Gladio and Prompto drive; Ignis rides in the back of one truck or the other, tying off bleeding limbs and trying to calm hysterical men and women whose families are smears of red on the pavement.

Iggy's good at it.

Prompto's glad one of them is, cause Gladio's retreated behind a stone-solid wall of perfect soldier, and Prompto – Prompto's barely holding himself together.

He pukes when he sees what's left of Galdin Quay the first time, violent black water and nightmare dreamscape, the leavings of sun-drenched vacationers painted in blood red and bone white there on the sand.

Then he pulls it together. He wipes his mouth with a shaking hand, and he fumbles out his guns, and they get the little girl hiding under the pier the hell out of there.

It's not a victory. It's not.

All Prompto can think while he's driving back to Hammerhead is how glad he is his hands are on the wheel, instead of around that poor girl's shoulders, cause if he had Ignis' job right now, he would lose his godsdamned mind.

If there's a plus side to that first year, it's that the chaos is so all-consuming it's hard to think of Noct. There's just no time for it.

Those thoughts still creep up on him, of course – when Prompto's lying on the ground, waiting for sleep to come.

He thinks of Noct's voice, mellow and even. He thinks of Noct's hands, warm and steady, helping him down out of metal restraints. He thinks of Noct's face in a hundred different photos, pretending indifference – of the way that blank stare didn't quite hold up, when you knew where to look for the quirk of his lips or the spark of mirth in his eyes.

So sure, Noct sneaks in sometimes – but not till Prompto's run himself ragged. Not till he's stretched out on the ground, every square inch of him bruised or bloody, thirty-six hours out from his last decent sleep and five hours away from when he needs to be up again to swing by Cauthess and check for anything they can scavenge.

As far as plus sides go, he's sure there are better ones. But it means he only spends about two minutes every night wishing that Noct would hurry up and make it back.

And that's something, anyway.

These days, he'll take whatever he can get.

 

* * *

 

Year two's not much better.

They've gone through most of the canned food by the time summer hits, and without light, all the crops are dead.

The herds out on the plains are skeletons gathering dust now, just another set of dead things in the daemon-ridden wastelands. Fishing's still viable – most daemons won't go in the water – but it takes a team of five or six holding off the hoards so one or two can reel in catches.

90% of the population might be gone, but that 10% is still a hell of a lot of mouths to feed, and what they pull in never seems to be enough.

Prompto drops weight that second year. He looks like he's got some kind of terminal disease, eating away at him inside. He can't remember what it's like to be full.

When he fights, he's always borderline dizzy – always a bit off-balance.

Time's still at a premium, too. He and Gladio and Iggy, they're always on guard duty, or driving people out for supply raids, or picking up machinery scraps so the ladies at Lestallum's power plant can keep the lights on.

There's always something new to worry about, so Prompto can't worry quite so much about Noct. About how long it's been, or how Noct's holding up, or if he misses them.

Noct's a pleasant memory in the moments between crises, and he's a silent prayer on Prompto's lips at night, every time he closes his eyes. 

That prayer always ends, "So come home soon, okay?"

 

* * *

 

"We'd do more good if we split up," Gladio announces, just into year three.

And really, nothing about those words come as a surprise. Prompto can read between the lines.

He hasn't seen Gladio smile for going on two years, and he suspects some part of that's down to his kid sister running wild over the plains, now a hot-shot daemon hunter of her own.

So yeah, Prompto gets it. He does. If he had a family left, maybe he'd feel the same way.

He puts on a smile, dredged out of his own dwindling supply, and claps Gladio on the shoulder. He says, "Stay in touch, big guy. You know where to find us."

And he watches Gladio walk on out the door.

 

* * *

 

By year four, they've almost got their shit together.

Prompto's not a breath away from starving most days, which is such a novel feeling that it seems like a revelation. Holly and the ladies at the power plant've got an artificial light greenhouse up and running, and they are officially his own personal heroes.

Potatoes have reappeared; so have tomatoes and wild onions. Mushrooms grow on half-light, out beyond the greenhouse, and Prompto thanks the Six every day for weird fungi that don't need much sun. Someone had the bright idea to catch the last few wild daggerquills, up in the high reaches where the daemons couldn't get claws on them, and keep them for eggs. They've got a coop in the middle of the city, now. Fishing runs are still hard, but they're become almost routine. They bring in fish and crab and mussels; sometimes, when the quay's clear enough, they launch the boat and dredge for seaweed.

They've almost got a life again. Almost.

It's enough so Prompto has time, sometimes, to take out the photographs from their trip. He picks through them gingerly, almost afraid to touch, after Iggy's gone to bed for the night.

He kind of misses the first few years and the nonstop scramble to survive.

Back then, there was never time to remember.

 

* * *

 

It's the middle of year five before Ignis pulls him aside one night after dinner. It's the best meal they've had in awhile; Ignis, praise all the Six, managed to make something edible out of seaweed and clams. He's cooking again – really cooking, not just feeling his way but starting to get the hang of it.

Prompto's finishing up the dishes, lazy swipes of a rag to get the last of the water off, when Iggy speaks up.

"They've asked me to stay on at Lestallum," he says.

Prompto's not stupid. He knows what it's got to take, running a city that size on the resources they have. And completely objective, no bias, Iggy's probably the best logistics guy left in the whole damn world.

So Prompto says, "Yeah, sure, go for it. Surprised they waited this long."

He thinks he's being casual – encouraging, even. But his voice must give something away, because Ignis purses his lips and furrows his brow. He's got his head tipped to the side, the way he does now when he's listening.

At last he says, "Are you all right?"

The words slide into Prompto like a splinter of glass: disproportionately painful, for something so small.

Because it's Ignis asking. Ignis, who lost his eyes and spent the last five years rebuilding his world from the ground up during the apocalypse. Ignis, who will never see again – who had to relearn to cook and wield his knives  – who still stumbles in debris sometimes, trying to walk without a cane.

Ignis, asking Prompto if he's all right.

For the first time in a long time, Prompto remembers sitting on a hotel rooftop with his best friend. He recalls confessing that he's not _enough_ —smart enough, or strong enough, or brave enough. He's only him, and that's not good for very much at all.

Prompto feels it again now, in a sudden surge – suffocating inadequacy at the sight of Ignis' expression, all concern, set in a face riddled with scars.

"You know me," Prompto tells him, trying desperately to channel the boy from five years before. "I'm always okay."

 

* * *

 

Year six, Prompto almost dies.

Not that brushes with death aren't a gil a dozen these days, but of all his almost-bit-it misadventures, this one's the worst.

When the daemons are done with him, he can't even walk.

His right leg's got a gash running from thigh to ankle thanks to a ghostly form in a wide straw hat, and his left arm's a whole mess of bite marks from hobgoblin teeth.

He drags himself half a mile to the old chocobo ranch, to the inside stable where they used to let the sick birds bunk down. He sits himself down in the straw, and he shreds his vest for bandages, and he does his best to stop the bleeding.

It's almost not enough.

He's out for – who knows. A day? Two?

He wakes and sleeps and wakes again in the musty straw that smells like feathers and better days.

He drinks from the rain bucket in the corner, some catch-basin for a leaking roof. He eats the strips of fish jerky in his pocket, all two of them, and then he's out of food.

His leg runs hot, throbbing and swollen. He sweats and freezes, and his face burns to the touch. He dreams strange dreams, of an empty world and a vast, metallic, impassive face.

He dreams of Noct. He swears that Noct is calling his name.

When the fever breaks, he finds himself strong enough to hobble. He makes his precarious way to the parking lot, where someone's left a car with half a tank of gas. Prompto breaks her open and twists together the wires. He uses his left foot for the gas pedal.

And when he gets back to what passes for civilization these days, no one's noticed he was gone.

 

* * *

 

Seven years in, all of Prompto's dreams come true.

Cindy pushes him up against the wall out back of the garage at Hammerhead. She threads her fingers into his hair, and she kisses him senseless.

He holds onto her like he's a drowning man and she's the air. He's shaky, almost desperate – but every time her chapped lips touch his own and he catches the smell of her, sage brush and motor oil, he flashes back to the overlook above Hammerhead.

He recalls Noct's teasing voice, and stumbling through an improvised script. He thinks of his old camera, gathering dust now for seven years.

His stomach isn't full of butterflies. He just feels sick.

And when they pull apart to breathe, Prompto gasps, "I can't. I'm sorry. I can't."

He doesn't remember the last time someone touched him in kindness. He feels like he's shaking apart, like a faulty engine on its last legs. He's not sure when he stopped being able to handle people, but there it is.

He's lost the trick of it.

"Oh, honey," says Cindy, soft and sympathetic, and he's afraid to look up at her face.

 

* * *

 

Cindy clears out the little shed out back of the garage halfway through year eight, and Prompto moves in. By mutual, tacit agreement, they never mention the now-distant kiss.

Staying at Hammerhead's – nice, in a way. He hasn't had a place to call home in a long, long time.

He hauls in a beat-up old couch and a roll-away cot. He sets his camera on the table in the corner.

On the days Cindy needs supplies, he heads out into the darkness, guns blazing. On the days Prompto can't seem to drag himself out of bed, Cindy cajoles him into the garage, where they sit in rickety folding chairs, drinking Cid's whiskey out of paper cups.

Cid doesn't mind. He's been dead going on four years now.

Some nights, they talk about what they'll do when the sun comes back. Some nights, they talk about what it was like before it was gone.

The days Prompto has too much whiskey, he'll even talk about Noct. About the way he was with no one else around – a lazy sprawl across the bench in the palace gardens, or fierce competition in the dingy arcade near Prompto's place. Always flat and uninterested on the surface, but so warm and fond and _good_ just underneath.

One night, three cups of whiskey in on an empty stomach, Prompto goes on longer than usual, words tripping out like he'll choke on them if he can't put them in the open. Cindy's got a funny look on her face the whole time – and when he's done, she only says, "That boy sure did a number on you, didn't he?"

She won't tell him what that's supposed to mean, no matter how many times he asks.

 

* * *

 

Year nine, it finally occurs to him that maybe Noct's not coming back.

Maybe the Crystal's broken him down into component parts. Maybe they're waiting on a dawn that's never gonna rise.

He drapes himself over his couch, and he stares up at the ceiling. When Cindy tries to ply him with whiskey and talk, he turns his face into the shabby cushions, buries himself against coarse fabric until she leaves.

He drifts into sleep, and dreams creep up on him. In them, he sees violet Crystal-light and Noct's eyes, glowing the same color. He sees a small, white dog, scratching at a gilded door, ancient and immovable and sealed.

When he wakes, the ceiling is like an old friend, greying in spots, worn down by time.

It's three days before Cindy shows up in the doorway, face pinched and pale with worry. "There ain't no more food left," she says, like an apology.

There is. He knows there is. He never used to be the sort to keep track of inventory or rations, never cared much for paring things down into necessary increments, but things change. She's got enough to see her through the next week and a half, easy.

But Prompto – Prompto clings to the offer like the crutch it is. "I'll go," he tells her, and somehow, it gives him the strength to stand.

 

* * *

 

The day Talcott drives the most precious cargo anyone's ever carried into the dusty parking area at Hammerhead, Prompto forgets every Six-cursed second of the past ten years.

Suddenly he's twenty again – that same careless kid who couldn't sit still, barreling off across the packed earth toward the one thing he's been waiting for.

It's Noct.

It's Noct, as worn down as the rest of them, too-thin face and scruffy beard and the same incredible, edge-of-night blue eyes.

It's Noct, and for just one minute, Prompto means to bowl him over, arms around his back, face buried in his shoulder. It's what he would have done, once upon a time.

But with every step, the years come rushing back to him, and he finds himself stumbling, slowing, drawing up short. There's some invisible line in the dust, and he can't bring himself to cross it.

What's the matter you with you, he thinks. Just do it. Just _go_.

But Prompto's stuck there, two feet away, just a little too far. Much as he wants to be, he's not that boy anymore.

Sometimes, things just can't stay the way they were.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He can do Hammerhead: the parched, hard-packed earth; the skeletons of cars that seem held together with scraps of rusted paint; the chunk of plaster missing from the garage, a memento of a pulse-pounding few hours when the lights flickered and died, and Prompto kept the daemons from tearing the place apart while Cindy struggled with wiring.
> 
> He can even handle Noct: broader shoulders, lined face, hints of Regis in his jaw, and in his hair, and in the sculpture-perfect shape of his nose.
> 
> But when Prompto pulls back and tries to take them in together, some connection in his brain fizzles and goes dark, like it's too hard to put them both in the same picture. Like it's too much, after ten years of hoping, to have it come true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought I was done with this. And then my brain kept going, "But what if there was another chapter. What if."
> 
> I... am undecided if it needs a third. I kind of want them to actually get together, so they can have nice things for a few days, at least. :|a

The night filters by like a fever dream, rushes of blur bracketed by moments of dazzling clarity.

Something in him's having trouble parsing the visuals.

He can do Hammerhead: the parched, hard-packed earth; the skeletons of cars that seem held together with scraps of rusted paint; the chunk of plaster missing from the garage, a memento of a pulse-pounding few hours when the lights flickered and died, and Prompto kept the daemons from tearing the place apart while Cindy struggled with wiring.

He can even handle Noct: broader shoulders, lined face, hints of Regis in his jaw, and in his hair, and in the sculpture-perfect shape of his nose.

But when Prompto pulls back and tries to take them in together, some connection in his brain fizzles and goes dark, like it's too hard to put them both in the same picture. Like it's too much, after ten years of hoping, to have it come true.

When Cindy grabs them each by an arm and steers them toward the garage, it's like divine intervention. She says, "This here's a reunion, boys. What say we celebrate?"

Celebration means four cups of whiskey instead of the usual two – one for him, and one for Noct, and one each for Cindy and Talcott – but the folding chair is familiar, and the cup in his hand feels right, and the liquor burns going down.

Looking at the circle of faces shifts something in him. The sight settles beneath his ribcage and turns over with the reminder of warm firelight and camping trips long gone. Prompto feels a smile start to tug at his mouth, rickety and disused at first, but then wider, more genuine. It feels half-unhinged; he feels half-manic.

He doesn't care.

They talk about immediate things – surface things – for the five minutes they take to finish their whiskey, and then Talcott, the sweet, practical boy, asks whether Noct's hungry.

He is. But more than that, he's still got his supplies, gathered on a long-ago roadtrip for Ignis to fuss over on the camp stove. The Six only know how nothing's gone bad by now, but he's kept it tucked away in that strange and unearthly realm where the weapons of kings reside, so maybe it's magic. Prompto would put gil on magic.

Noct brings some of it out with a ghostly scattering of light, but instead of a blade, what lies before them on the beat-up plastic table are the dualhorn rib steaks that Ignis wrapped in wax paper a lifetime ago. There are spices, too – and peppers, and rice.

Prompto's staring, and he knows in a peripheral kind of way that Cindy and Talcott are, too. He hears his own throat click when he swallows. It's a lot more food than he's seen meant for a single meal in a long time.

"Well, ain't you the hero we've all been waiting for," Cindy says, after a beat of silence, and stands to clap a hand on Noct's shoulder. "Hey, Talcott. How's about you and me fix up some grub?"

"Sure thing, Miss Aurum," says Talcott, and gathers up the meat and the peppers.

"You two be good," Cindy tells them, and heads toward the garage door, Talcott in her wake. She glances back over her shoulder – fixes Prompto with a smile.

Then they're both gone, and he's alone with Noct.

For an instant, words stick on his tongue. Prompto stares across the foot of space between them, and he can't think of anything to say.

He can think of a thousand things to say.

He says, "So I always wondered. The Armiger have some kind of magic minifridge? Cause dude. Those steaks are like ten years old."

And Noct's eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles, and the expression takes five years off of him and steals Prompto's breath away.

Just like that, they're – not okay, but it feels like the wall inside him, the one trapping the words behind it, takes a shuddering blow with a battering ram. It's not down, no, but there are breaches, and the enemy forces are streaming in to tear down the rest.

They talk until Talcott comes to get them for dinner. Noct tells Prompto about the strange world of the Crystal – Bahamut's imposing metallic form, and the unearthly glow, and the emptiness.

Prompto tells Noct about ten years, been and gone: about Gladio and Iris, daemon hunters extraordinaire; about Ignis, the best damn logistics guy in the world. He says it'll probably take three days for Iggy to hitch a ride out from Lestallum, and the Six only know where Gladio's ended up, so they're stuck here for a while, just the two of them.

He tells Noct about the greenhouse, and the daggerquill coop, and fishing runs out to Galdin Quay. He rambles on about Cindy, and her work keeping the hunters mobile – about trucks with ultra-bright lights, and scavenging parts for engines, and her awesome new jury-rigged motorcycle that still needs some work to get running.

He leaves himself out.

Prompto skirts around the edges of his own life – fastidiously avoids picking at not-quite-healed scabs – and toward the end, he can see Noct starting to look more closely at him. There's a question, partially formed, on his tongue.

That's when Talcott shows up to say the food's ready, and Prompto's never been more grateful to the boy.

They sit out under the bright floodlights, the four of them, and eat dinner. It's not Ignis quality, but the ingredients are fresh, and Talcott knows his way around a frying pan. They end up with a dualhorn and pepper stir fry over rice.

Noct produces fresh oranges for dessert, and they split two between the four of them. Cindy picks the seeds out to set them aside. The sweet-tart juice on Prompto's tongue and the dizzying notion that, someday soon, there might be orange trees growing in the sun makes hope swell up like a tide in his chest, a surge of clear bright water, high enough to drown.

"Well," Cindy says, real casual. "I reckon it's just about time to call it quits for tonight. Seeing how I ain't got no more rooms, I was hoping you boys wouldn't mind bunking together."

"Uh," says Prompto, at the same moment Noct says, "I don't mind."

They seek each other out as though through some cue – share a glance.

Prompto ducks his head and feels his face start to burn. He knows damn well Cindy's got a spare room next to her own, in the loft on top of the garage. He ought to say that, something about Noct wanting some space of his own on his first night back, but he can't seem to make his mouth work. When it finally does, all he comes out with is: "It's just, I didn't pick up or anything."

"We did share a tent, y'know," Noct says, tone amused. "Pretty sure I know what to brace myself for."

"Sounds like he's got your number," Cindy laughs. "Well, I'll leave ya'll to it." On the way past Prompto, she gives him a nudge with her elbow. "Good luck."

It's hard not to read too much into that. It's hard not to watch Cindy's back disappearing into the night and feel a bit betrayed.

"I guess we oughtta get some sleep," Prompto manages, at last. "You must be pretty tired after that trip up from the quay."

"Yeah," says Noct. "I could crash right here."

Prompto's lips curve up at the familiar words – at the familiar voice. Something in his chest feels heavy and full, hearing them spoken again after so long.

"Better plan: you stay on your feet a couple more minutes and we get you a bed." A thought occurs to him. "Or do you wanna shower first? My place doesn't have one, but there's a hook-up on the side."

Sleep, it turns out, can wait: Noct does want to shower first. So Prompto fetches him a towel and shows him the not-shower. It's a spigot on the wall, set up with a hose and a spray attachment bracketed about head level. There's no hot water, and there's just a jury-rigged curtain for privacy's sake, but it's good enough to get off the road dust and daemon blood.

When Noct's done, he reappears, pale in his old black t-shirt, hair dripping into his collar. He's shivering in the chill night air, and Prompto takes pity on him.

"Let's get moving. It'd kind of suck if you came back and froze to death your first night."

Noct hugs his arms to his chest; he clenches his teeth to keep them from chattering. "What happened to Hammerhead being hot?"

Prompto lifts one shoulder and lets it fall. "Kind of need a sun for that."

He leads Noct around back, to his room behind the garage – takes a minute to fumble out the key and unlock it. Then he yanks the light cord, and a single bulb flickers into life, illuminating the cramped quarters.

It's not a bad room, all things considered.

It's got a roof that doesn't leak, and electricity that runs on Hammerhead's generator. The couch is pretty beat up, and the cot creaks like an old man's bones, but he _has_ a couch and a cot. And so what if the floor space between the furniture's almost nonexistent? All he needs it for is a place to crash between scavenging runs. It's enough.

It's even pretty clean, all protests to Noct aside. Prompto just doesn't have enough things to create his old haphazard clutter.

He can feel Noct's eyes roving through the area – turns to catch a glimpse of the shuttered, unreadable expression on Noct's face.

For a moment, Prompto tries to imagine this room as an outsider; all decade-old furniture, with no hint of personal touch to soften the edge. Back in high school, Prompto was kind of a hoarder. He pinned patches to his clothes, cluttered his walls with photos or magazine clippings, collected bits and pieces of things he liked and gathered them to him like a chocobo building a nest.

Things have changed since then, and there beneath Noct's carefully blank face, Prompto thinks he sees realization.

Then the moment's gone, and Noct tries on a half-smile. He crosses to the couch, to pinch one of the socks scattered carelessly over its back between thumb and forefinger. "Some things never change, I guess."

And just like that, the hand that's been squeezing Prompto's chest since Noct arrived relaxes its grip. The release is enough for a shaky huff of a laugh to slip past Prompto's lips. "Guess so."

Without asking, Noct tosses the socks aside and settles himself on the couch, leaning back to test the cushions. They give under his head; the couch might be moth-eaten and worn around the edges, but it's damn comfortable. "Nice," says Noct, approvingly. "You got any extra blankets or anything?"

He probably should have thought of this. It would have been the perfect excuse to put Noct up in Cindy's spare room, instead of here. He's only got the two quilts on his own cot, after all, and with the sun MIA, most nights they're not quite enough to keep him warm.

But he says, "Yeah, sure," and goes to scoop off the top layer. By the time he's got it in his arms and is turning around, Noct's attention's been drawn to the tiny plastic table in the corner. It's seen better days, just like the rest of his stuff; so has the camera on top of it.

Noct's got a wistful sort of half-smile on his lips. It's not a good look on him; his eyes are too bright, and his face, ten years older, seems worn beyond its time.

Prompto dumps the quilt on the couch and makes to turn away. All he really wants is to get to sleep and stop talking. All he really wants is an hour or two alone in the dark, so that he can get his own hammering heart under control and sort out his thoughts.

Instead, he says, "That old thing, right? Can't believe I held onto it." He pauses, almost a beat too long. "Wanna see?"

And Noct blurts, "Yeah," so fast Prompto has to take a closer look at him – has to take a step back in his own mind, and realize that he's not the only one struggling, here.

He can do this, for an old friend.

So Prompto picks up his camera, for the first time in probably four years. He's acutely aware of Noct's eyes on him – of the thick layer of dust he has to wipe away from the view screen. When he presses the on button, there's a heart-stopping moment when he's afraid it won't work, but after a tiny, mechanical whine, the screen floods white and brings up the manufacturer's logo.

Prompto breathes a sigh of relief and circles around to the other side of the couch. He shoves the quilt aside to make space and plops himself down on the center cushion, next to Noct. There's plenty of room between them, right up until Noct leans closer to get a better view, and then suddenly, the whole of his side is pressed up against the whole of Prompto's side, warm and very real, through the thin fabric of Noct's ratty old t-shirt.

It's – a lot, all of a sudden. And Prompto's out of practice. Casual physical intimacy has fallen by the wayside, along with so many other things.

Prompto takes a breath in, and lets it out. He takes another, feels it catch in his throat. He wishes they'd had more than one glass of whiskey, because he's nowhere near drunk, and the alcohol might've made this something approaching bearable.

He thinks he's shaking, and he can't quite seem to rein it in. He feels Noct's eyes on him, a weight that's almost palpable. "Prompto?" he says, quietly.

"I'm good," Prompto tells him, a little too quickly. "It's just – been awhile, is all."

For the camera. For the pictures. For sitting like this, next to someone he cares about.

For _Noct_.

His finger finds the menu button, and there on the screen, their faces appear in vibrant, sun-lit color, all high definition. He pages forward, and forward again, and forward again. Their journey plays out on the tiny screen, snapshots of a long-ago life.

Prompto's throat feels thick and closed off. His eyes are stinging. Beside him, Noct has gone very quiet. It's not until halfway through that Prompto notices a suspicious wet spot on Noct's forearm; a single, perfect droplet that tips and runs, leaving a glistening trail behind it.

When he jerks his head up, he sees that Noct is crying, silent tear tracks down his cheeks.

"Noct," says Prompto.

He moves to turn the camera off – starts when Noct's hand catches at his own.

"No," says Noct. "Please. I want to see them."

So Prompto pages forward, and forward, and forward. Through the boat trip, and Altissia, and the awful, forbidding lines of a train corridor. There's nothing after that, and Prompto tries hard not to think about why.

"That's it," Prompto says, when he hits the button a final time and nothing happens. "That's the last of them."

Noct makes a strange noise, and he goes for the camera again. "Like hell it is." He presses the sturdy plastic into Prompto's hands, and he leans in, so close his still-damp hair tickles Prompto's neck.

He's half-lying against Prompto's shoulder, a pose from a dozen dumb selfies – not just during their trip, but in high school. At the arcade, or in the palace gardens, or with ice cream from the new shop that opened up downtown.

It's dust now, all of Insomnia. That arcade, and those gardens, and that ice cream shop, no one's set foot in them for ten years.

But he and Noct – they're still here.

"Yeah," Prompto manages to choke out. "Yeah. We can always make more."

He sets his head against Noct's and angles the camera, and he takes the shot.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Annnnd then this happened. \o/

Prompto can't move.

Everywhere around him, metal presses in like a vice. He can't lift his arms; he can barely take a full breath. "Noct?" he says, and his throat is so dry the word is scarcely a croak.

He knows where he is, now. Ahead of him, the corridors of the facility in Niflheim stretch like the path toward some unforgiving future. They fade away, into darkness.

"Noct?" Prompto tries again.

His ears must be playing tricks on him. There's a strange _click_ , _click_ , _click_ that echoes down the hall, only just audible. In the gloom, he thinks he can see a small white figure, all fluffy fur and curly tail, nails making the sound on the harsh surface of the floor. It's Tiny – Pryna, his mind corrects  – standing there in the gloom, straight out of some childhood memory.

She sits down and lifts a paw to scratch at something in the hallway, set into the wall.

"The hell?" he mumbles.

As though in answer, a hand reaches around from behind him. It tips his chin up, the gesture casual and familiar. "Noct," Prompto says. "Took you long enough. Thank the Six."

It's Ardyn's voice that answers, though; the man circles around to stand before him, blocking the hall from view. There's a smirk spread across his lips, insinuating and cruel.

"They never have been terribly forgiving," says Ardyn. "I'm afraid His Highness is unavailable just now."

Something twists in Prompto's stomach – a panicked, sinking sensation. Protests bloom in his thoughts and then peel away, withered on the vine. "But he came back," says Prompto.

He did. He _did_. Both times. Didn't he?

Prompto's chest feels like something's crushing it. It's hard to breathe.

"A dream, I'm afraid," Ardyn says. "Dreams are curious things. Not terribly kind."

When he reaches in, Prompto flinches back instinctually. He has context for this. Even now, ten years out, he has too-vivid memories of the kind of pain those hands can inflict.

"You're lying." Prompto scrunches his eyes closed. He pulls against the bonds, as hard as he's able, fighting to escape Ardyn's touch. " _Noct_!"

"Swallowed up by the Crystal," says Ardyn. His breath is hot on Prompto's ear. "He can't exactly come to lend a hand this time. Can he?"

Prompto can't breathe. He opens his eyes – stares wildly toward the hall. Maybe Tiny will go to find help, he thinks. But the sight of the corridor is blocked by Ardyn; all he can see is Ardyn's face, far too close to his own.

Then, suddenly, a different voice speaks. "Shh," it says. "Shh, hey. Calm down." It doesn't sound much like Ardyn's voice at all.

"He'll come," Prompto's saying. "He'll _be_ here."

"I'm here already," says the voice. "Wake up, Prom. You're freaking me out."

The world goes dark around the edges. Ardyn's face wavers and then fades. What little light there was in the passageways of Niflheim's experimental facility goes out like someone shorted the circuits, leaving nothing but blackness.

Prompto jerks against the weight holding him, thrashes and tries to pull free. He pulls so hard he that the ground lurches under him – tips with a resounding crash when it goes over sideways. His heart's slamming in his chest like an iron giant with a vendetta.

"Prompto," says Noct's voice, right beside him – and that's the magic word that breaks the spell.

All of a sudden, he's not in Niflheim at all, but on the floor of his own room. He's yanked the cot over; now he's sprawled, sleep-mussed, in the quilt puddled on his floor. Noct's kneeling there beside him, hovering like he's afraid to touch.

"Holy shit," Prompto breathes, and takes his first full lungful of air in what feels like days. The steel bands wrapped around his chest ease up, just slightly. He gasps, and coughs, and gasps again.

Noct's hand's on his shoulder, the touch awkward and uncertain. Prompto leans forward, seizes a handful of black t-shirt, and hauls him in, close enough that he can rest his forehead against Noct's collarbone.

Hesitantly, Noct slides a hand around his back – lays it flat against his shoulder blade, the palm solid and calming through the fabric of his shirt. A second ticks by, and then another; the other hand joins the first, and Noct's arms make a careful loop, drawing Prompto in.

Prompto takes a long, shuddering breath. He slumps like a puppet with cut strings. Noct's solid and very real against him; one of those hands moves, making small, soothing circles. Prompto thinks he might cry, and he bites down on his lip, hard, to hold it back.

It takes him probably two full minutes to pull himself together. When he does, he shifts his weight to give Noct some space and break up the embrace before it gets awkward. The smile he dredges up is meant to be wry and charming, but it's probably coming apart at the seams.

"Sorry, dude," says Prompto. "Pitfalls of bunking with me. We'll try and get you someplace quieter tomorrow, kay?"

Noct's eyes are on him, expression doing something complicated that Prompto can't quite seem to translate. Then Noct says, "Don't be an idiot," and his arms are back around Prompto, holding tighter than before.

It's a sudden motion, and Prompto's off-balance; he's got one foot under him, half ready to stand. He teeters, then falls forward into Noct, and they both go down.

The landing's clumsy. It leaves Noct seated straight-legged on the floor in the tiny gap between couch and cot, and Prompto on his knees, so close he's just about straddling Noct's thigh. Half the quilt's between them, bunches and folds, and the cot, tipped sideways, forms a wall at Prompto's side.

"I want to stay here," Noct says. He doesn't seem to care how close Prompto is – just lets one hand slide up to settle at the back of Prompto's neck, a steadying presence.

Everywhere Noct touches, Prompto's skin tingles with awareness.

"Sure," he manages. "Yeah, sure. Let's – let's get you settled in again."

But Prompto doesn't move; he stays right where he is, Noct's hands on him, and after a moment of trembling indecision, he lifts his own arms to put them around Noct's shoulders. An instant more, and he lets his weight settle, so that he's resting some of it on Noct. It seems as though he can feel each individual thread in the thin fabric of that worn black t-shirt. He's hyper-aware of the small tear at the collar, and finds himself thinking, inanely, that ten years ago, Ignis would have mended that already.

He laughs into the crook of Noct's neck, and it’s a wet sort of muffled sound. "I'm getting up," he promises. "Really. Just gimme a second."

Noct gives him a second. He waits while Prompto's heartrate slows to something approaching normal – waits while Prompto revels in the presence of another person, in the feel of gentling hands on him. At some point, Noct starts carding a hand through his hair, and the sensation of it, soothing and careful, seems to swallow him up.

When Prompto finally lets out a shuddering sigh and goes limp, resting his whole weight against the curve of Noct's body, Noctis says, "Better?"

"Better," Prompto agrees, heartfelt but weary.

This time, when he moves to pull away, it's only far enough back to gauge Noct's expression. He finds something he doesn't understand written in his old friend's face – something disconcertingly open. Those eyes, with that peculiar shade of night-sky blue, pin him with their scrutiny.

Something under Prompto's ribcage shudders into uncertain life, like an engine trying to start.

For half an instant, he's smothered by an impulse he hasn't felt in ten long years. It swells inside him, fluttering like moths' wings. It would be easy to follow along, to chase it down the lazy afternoon-lit paths of memory, the way he always fought not to when he was young.

Prompto thinks, suddenly, of Cindy's words, now years in the past: "That boy sure did a number on you, didn't he?" And he knows, with the crystal clarity of retrospection, exactly what she meant.

The moth-wing warmth inside of him has a sharp edge; it comes with an ache that feels suspiciously close to regret.

Noct's still searching his face – eyes flickering side to side, like he's attempting to decipher the text of a particularly challenging ancient tome.

Prompto takes a breath.

He tastes the air in his lungs, sweet and easy. He's aware of every point of contact between them: of Noct's fingers in his hair, and Noct's leg beneath him, and the curve of Noct's elbow, solid and steady around his side.

Warily, like the touch is liable to break them both, Prompto lifts one hand to Noct's face. He touches the planes of it, familiar and new at the same time. The scruffy rasp of the beard is electrifying friction against his palm.

He leans in before he has a chance to think better of it.

Noct's lips are surprisingly soft under his own. They're not chapped or weather-rough, and for an instant Prompto is fiercely glad of that.

Then he realizes that Noct hasn't moved – frozen with shock? Trying to find some diplomatic way to tell Prompto to get the hell off? Prompto doesn't know. With a flush of something bleak and bitter, he makes to pull away again.

He doesn't get very far. The hand on the back of his neck tightens; those fingers clutch like he's a lifeline, and draw him back in.

This time, what starts as a gentle touch turns open-mouthed and probing. Prompto breathes in through his nose, a sharp inhale; beneath him, Noct shifts restlessly. The hand on his back drifts, up over the ridges of his spine, down to trail along his ribs.

They pull apart after what might be an eternity or what might be half a minute. Prompto's shaking again, everything borderline too much, but he thinks if Noct suggests they call this off, whatever it is, he might unravel like an old sweater.

"Prom?" says Noctis. It sounds like a prayer, an invocation to the more benevolent of the Six.

"Good," says Prompto, forehead pressed to Noct's, words whispered against Noct's mouth. "I'm good."

There's an uncomfortable silence. Then Noct says, "Maybe we should –"

" _No_." The force of the word takes them both by surprise. Noct's eyes are wide and searching, and Prompto can see the way the lashes, thick and dark, stand out against the pale of his skin.

"No," Prompto says again, quieter this time. "I got this. It's just a lot, you know?"

It _is_ a lot. It would've been a lot any time, but now more than ever.

In some ways, he's still that gawky kid who has no one – still that boy whose whole world revolves around his first and only friend. Now he's got ten years on top of that, one long, endless night spent fixated on firefights and rations to keep his mind from wandering.

"Yeah," Noctis says, tone hushed and cautious. "I know."

This time, when Prompto kisses him, it's something slower. It's heat and exploration, languid, the way he remembers the afternoon sun.

After a beat, Noct responds in kind – not pushing, just taking his cues.

They keep it up until Prompto's lax and pliant, most of his weight resting against Noct. They keep it up until the tremors running through him have less to do with an edge-of-his-fingernails grip on the cliff of his own thoughts and more to do with pleasure, pure and uncomplicated.

He's aware, more acutely now, that he's straddling Noct's thigh. He's aware that his knee's pressed up against the seam at the center of Noct's jeans.

He shifts, and Noctis hisses in a breath. He shifts again, and Prompto's got a front row view for the way Noct's eyes fall closed and his mouth parts, like he wants to say something but can't quite find the words.

When he shifts a third time, he finds that at just that angle, the friction works both ways. Suddenly, he's biting down on his own lip, desire coiled low in his abdomen. "Okay," he manages. "Time out's over. The hell are we waiting for, again?"

Noct huffs a laugh – a rush of air, soft and intimate. "Us to get up off your freezing floor and onto the couch?" he suggests.

The couch seems like the best idea anyone's ever had. It takes Noct pointing it out, but Prompto suddenly remembers that the floor of his room is solid concrete, worse than a block of ice during the long dark always-night the world's become. His legs are cold where they're touching it, heat stolen even through the fabric of his jeans. Noct's sitting flat; he's got to be half-frozen.

"What, you don't wanna strip on my icebox of a floor?" Prompto says, with an exaggerated roll of his eyes. "Where's your sense of adventure?"

He clambers up off of Noct – slings a leg over the back of the couch and climbs right over, instead of walking around. The blanket Noct abandoned here clings to his residual heat; the cushions hold his shape.

"It's busy trying to remember what to do in case of hypothermia," Noct says, and then he climbs over the back of the couch, too. Prompto settles in next to him – takes hold of the blanket bunched against the armrest and winds it around Noct's shoulders.

"Thanks," says Noct. He tips his head to one side, considering. "Are we?"

Prompto blinks. "Are we what?"

"Stripping." Noct's expression is one part intense interest, two parts embarrassment. It's a strange mixture, oddly appealing.

"Well," Prompto says. "That's, uh. How it usually goes, right? Unless you wanna call it quits." Prompto's blushing. He's aware of the heat through his cheeks and down his neck; even his ears are burning.

When Noct leans in, he brings the blanket with him. His lips are a ghost of a touch against Prompto's cheekbone, then against his jaw.

Very deliberately, Noct reaches his hands to the hem of his t-shirt – pulls back just enough to look Prompto dead in the eye. Then he lifts it over his head and pulls it free.

When it's gone, his hair is mussed, and in the place of fabric, there's what seems like miles of pale skin. The sight hits Prompto like a physical blow; arousal washes over him, an urgent reminder of a time when his biggest problem was not having dubious dreams about his best friend while sharing a tent with three other guys.

Prompto swallows, and reaches  a tentative hand out to touch.

Noct's skin is inviting beneath his fingers, the too-familiar shape of it something he's only ever seen before. He knows that scar, where a giant bee embedded its stinger after the last of their potions were used up and the last bastion of civilization was yet miles down the road. He knows the curve of that wrist – the way it flicks a fishing pole like it's been put on Eos for no other reason.

What he doesn't know is the graceful dip and curve of Noct's shoulder, the way it feels beneath his exploring fingertips. What he doesn't know is the staccato dimples of gooseflesh along Noct's arm from the cold. What he doesn't know is the sound Noct makes, surprised and decidedly interested, when Prompto reaches out to run the pad of his thumb across the pink circle of a nipple.

Noct shifts against the couch cushions, as though impatient. "You better not make me freeze alone."

"That was the plan," Prompto tells him, and quirks a smile. But he's already reaching for his own shirt, rucking it up and off to send it flying across the floor, soon a forgotten heap on top of the discarded socks. "Happy?"

But Noct doesn't answer – not at first. He's too busy looking, and the teasing expression slides right off his face. In its place is something more somber, and Prompto's suddenly aware of how many more scars he has now than the last time Noct saw him half-clothed, that long-ago day splashing in Alstor Slough while Ignis tried unsuccessfully to convince them they ought to keep  some sort of schedule.

"Gods," says Noct, voice a hush in the suddenly still room.

His hand stretches out, with glacial slowness, to touch the jagged tear that starts just below Prompto's ribs.

"Pretty badass, right?" Prompto says. "Took down a bussemand or five a couple years back."

"Yeah," Noct echoes. "Definitely badass." But his brows are creased with worry, and Prompto's suddenly glad he's got his pants on, to cover up the scar that runs from thigh to ankle on his right leg.

"Hey," Prompto says, and reaches around Noct to the blanket that's draped over his back. He takes hold of two edges – pulls in, using it like a net to reel in his catch. "It's ancient history. Doesn't hurt anymore. Okay?"

And he tugs Noct in to kiss him.

It starts out careful, like Noct's afraid he'll break. Those fingers linger on the scar, preoccupied. But a minute fades into two. They have to break for air once, and then twice, and then a third time.

Noct's hands wander away, to trace the line of his ribs and the curve of his back. He spreads the fingers of his left hand, exploratory, over the expanse of Prompto's chest.

They rearrange themselves, so that Prompto's lying flat on the couch cushions, Noct poised above him, half-sitting. Noct's hair is a mess now, artless and loose without gel in it, a halo caught by the light streaming in through the half-slatted blinds on the window.

Prompto can hear them both breathing, quiet gasps that are loud in the close space of the room. Every touch is a too-sweet burn; his pants are so tight it aches. The full extent of Prompto's experience consists of late nights with his own hand, and it's been a long time since he's taken the time even for that. These simple touches have him embarrassingly wound up.

When Noct resettles his weight, it presses them together, flush against one another. Prompto rocks against him, biting at his lip to keep a noise from escaping – not entirely succeeding. His head falls back against the arm of the couch, and Noct takes it as an invitation, kissing his way down the line of Prompto's throat.

His hips press forward again, and Prompto shudders – pushes up into it. He feels close to the tipping point, like a trigger with a five pound weight under four pounds of pressure. The chill of the floor is a distant memory to his overheated skin.

Noct mouths down to his collarbone and then drifts lower, to lave his tongue over the peak of Prompto's nipple. This time, the noise that slips out of his mouth is startled – is tellingly loud. Prompto's face is burning again, and he's sure the heat's going to drown him, but that doesn't stop him from fumbling for Noct's waistband.

"C'mon," Prompto says. "You're killing me here."

Noct flashes a quick, sharp smile in response and levers himself up so that Prompto can get at the zipper of his jeans. It's a moment's work to take it down – a moment more to shove the fabric of Noct's underwear, black cotton, aside to expose what's underneath.

Noct's so hard he's leaking already. The length of him feels heavy and too-hot in Prompto's hand, but Noct moves and arches when he tries an experimental stroke, and that's about the hottest thing he's ever seen.

Prompto starts up a rhythm, the even pace he sets for himself when he gets a few minutes alone without some new crisis to distract him, and Noct seems to like it well enough. He's restless, rocking up to meet him, and one of his hands fall to the waist of Prompto's jeans.

He scrapes a fingernail against the skin, there by Prompto's hip, and Prompto jerks like he's been electrocuted.

So Noct, insufferably devious half-smile already creeping onto his lips, does it again.

It feels amazing, like someone's threaded a line of fire straight between that patch of skin and his groin. His grip on Noct's erection wavers for an instant, rhythm thrown, before he has the presence of mind to pick it up again.

And Noct, gods damn him, is wearing an inscrutable sort of smirk, the one he always used to get before he suggested they ditch studying for a few hours in favor of the new zombie game at the arcade. It's a smirk that promises trouble, and Prompto just has time to think how unfairly good it looks on him before Noct follows through with the unspoken threat.

The gesture's deliberate; Noct isn't reaching for the zipper on Prompto's jeans at all. Instead, he sets his thumbnail against the bulge in the denim and drags, the tantalizing scrape of nail on fabric a promise.

"Noct," Prompto gasps.

But before he can say anything else, Noct does it again, slow and brimming with intent.

Just like that, it's too much. Prompto makes a strangled, helpless little groan; he clutches at Noct's hand and _holds_ it there, applying pressure.

Noct's eyes flicker to his face, uncertain. Then the worry smooths into understanding. "Are you –?"

Prompto is. He's coming in his pants like some school kid, after a few simple touches.

And Noct catches on quick –palms him through the fabric and rubs, coaxing him through the aftershocks. When Prompto's done, he falls back against the couch cushions, euphoric and trembling.

"Don't," he manages after a few long seconds. "Don't you say a word."

"Didn't even cross my mind," says Noct.

Suspicious, Prompto slits his eyes open to gauge Noct's expression – finds less teasing amusement and more captivated want.

Prompto breathes a laugh. "Guess I better finish what I started," he says.

"I mean, I know you procrastinate," Noct says. "But there're better times and places."

He starts to add more, but breaks off when Prompto takes him in hand. It's gratifying, the way the words fade away to nothing, like Noct can't quite seem to wrap his mind around them anymore.

It doesn't take long; Prompto strokes steady and firm, watches Noct cant into it more with every passing second. Then he goes still and tense; his mouth falls open, and he's coming, pleasure etched into his face like constellations in the night sky.

When he's finished, he slumps forward – lets the whole weight of him settle onto Prompto. This close, Prompto can feel him breathing, the gentle rise and fall of Noct's chest against his bare skin.

Prompto closes his eyes. He presses a kiss against Noct's shoulder.

He says, "If I don't get out of these pants, I'm gonna regret it when we wake up."

Noct laughs, a low vibration that Prompto feels more than hears. "And whose fault is that?"

" _Yours_."

Noct laughs again, not unkindly, but he draws back to give Prompto space to shimmy out of his wet pants and underwear. These, too, he sends sailing over to the discarded clothes pile in the corner. He pulls on a clean pair of sweatpants, hanging from his bed post – feels Noct's eyes on him as he does, and realizes too late that Noct's caught sight of the scar down his leg, after all.

But Noct doesn't say a word.

When he's done, Prompto slots himself back onto the couch and stretches out into his old position. After a moment, Noct joins him. There's not enough space for the both of them – not really – but Prompto doesn't care. He's warm and relaxed and tangled up in Noct. Dinner's still a pleasant weight in his stomach, and the nightmare's a distant wisp of a memory.

He feels better than he has in – he can't remember. Years.

His eyes start to drift shut. Noct's fingers thread through his own.

"I need to tell you something," says Noct, voice small in the darkness.

Prompto is drifting away, half asleep already. He feels as though everything's wrapped in morning mist, tranquil and delicate. He feels as though the part of himself that's been teetering on the edge of despair has gone blissfully quiet inside of him.

He nevers wants this moment to end.

"Can't it wait till we wake up?"

Noct brushes a thumb over his knuckles, so gently. "Sure," he says. "It'll keep till then."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two things struck me, writing this.
> 
> The first is that yes, this is a good ending point, and I could leave it there and walk away.
> 
> The second is that, if I leave it here, Noct is going to tell Prompto in the morning that he has to die, and he is going to absolutely fall apart.
> 
> So. So I think that maybe this fic isn't over. This was meant to be a one-shot, and yet somehow now I have a tentative outline for something stupidly long. This thing keeps getting away from me. orz
> 
> Would antone even be interested in reading more?


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be a one shot. I don't even know what's happening anymore. orz
> 
> Also: holy hell, THANK you guys so much for the amazing response! All of your comments absolutely gave me life (and the strength to bang out the scene in this chapter, which was frankly pretty rough to write). I hope you enjoy!

Noct tells him when they wake up, while they're still lying tangled up in one another against the shabby cushions of Prompto's old couch.

Prompto stares at him for close to ten seconds, mind blank, able to say nothing at all.

Then he manages: "What?" It comes out numb and shell-shocked, exactly how he feels. He can't quite get the words to sink in.

So Noct tells him again.

When Prompto sits up, the blanket comes away with him, caught around his waist. He opens his mouth and then closes it. He thinks he means to tell Noct that he's wrong.

Noct has to be wrong. There's no way it's true.

Every muscle in him is tensed as thought for a fight; his heart is a dull percussion in his chest.

He stares at Noct, hard, like if he looks long enough he'll see something different.  Like this is some nightmare, the kind where things aren't the way they seem at first, and if he just waits long enough, the rest of the explanation will come.

His head's reeling. A few years back, a red giant knocked him across a stretch of black asphalt and straight into the jutting edge of a rock outcropping. The resulting concussion lasted five long days, a head-spinning mess of vertigo and disorientation.

Prompto feels he same way now.

"Verbatim," Prompto manages, finally. "What – What _exactly_ did he –"

So Noct sits up, too. He runs a hand through loose, sleep-mussed hair. And he tells Prompto again, verbatim this time.

"Providence," says Noct. "A power greater than even that of the Six, purifying all by the Light of the Crystal and the glaives of rulers past. Only at the throne can the Chosen receive it, and only at the cost of a life: his own."

He says it flat and even, like he's reading from some ancient textbook. He even sells the lie, right up until his voice breaks on the words.

And that – that more than anything is what makes it real. It's not a joke; it's not a nightmare. His sleeping mind, Prompto's sure, couldn't be cruel enough to give Noct's tone just that edge of desolation.

For a moment, Prompto can't move.

The enormity of the realization traps him, stagnant water in a lake that has no outlet to the sea. Then he wrenches himself into motion, lifts shaking arms and puts them around Noct's shoulders.

Noct's skin is still bare. His shirt lies on the floor, crumpled and discarded, where he left it the night before. He's cold to the touch, almost clammy.

Prompto tightens his grip. He loops his arms around his oldest friend and dips his head – rests against Noct, so that they're forehead to forehead. His thoughts are still unsteady, dizzy and distant; his chest aches with something deeper than any wound he's ever suffered on the battlefield.

He doesn't know what to do. He doesn't know what he _can_ do.

One of the gods has spoken. What do you say to that?

What _Prompto_ says to that, apparently, is: "To hell with the Six." At least, those are the words his mouth forms. That's what's coming out, whole and unfiltered, before his mind has time to think it all the way through.

Noct makes a sound that is decidedly not a laugh. "Prompto."

"No, seriously," says Prompto. Suddenly he's aware of the clean, sharp sting of his own tears at the corners of his eyes – but under that, a wave of heat swells up after the pain, some noxious mix of frustration and overwhelming, awful _unfairness_. "Let them find someone else. Or better yet: let them fix their own mess."

"Prompto." Noct's voice is gentle now, consoling. Prompto hates it. That's the kind of voice someone uses to say, "I'm so sorry for your loss."

It feels like he's choking. It feels like something with too-sharp teeth is eating him up inside. It feels like yesterday, some miraculous little sprout of a vine in delicate spring green had started to grow in the blighted soil; now it's withered up and turned to ash.

"We'll find another way," Prompto says, not liking the edge of desperation in his own voice. "We've got, what. Two days until Iggy gets here? That's a lot of time."

"Prompto," Noct says again. The word comes out slow, dragged unwillingly.

"We can find something," Prompto says. "Go —go digging. There's got to be something we missed. I mean, it's a big world. What if there's some, some library, or secret ancient weapon, or –"

An image rises to his mind then, with sudden, perfect clarity: a small, white paw, scratching at a gilded entryway. " – a door. Some door we haven't opened."

Noct takes a breath in, and it hitches unevenly. "Please stop," he says.

It's the tone that makes Prompto pull away. It's a tone he hasn't heard since the train ride through a frozen landscape, years before. It's small and miserable and scrubbed of anything resembling hope.

He searches out Noct's face – looks hard – and his stomach turns at what he sees there.

"You're just going to go," says Prompto. His voice sounds hollow to his own ears, shaken and disbelieving.

"What the hell else can I do?" Noct says. There are tears in his eyes; they glimmer around the lashes, near to falling. "Don't make this harder than it already is."

The words shake the foundation of Prompto's world, open up the ground beneath his feet. Lying under the surface, where he always thought there was benign soil, he discovers a pit of bottomless black, yawning wide, waiting to swallow him whole.

"Right," says Prompto, voice strangled by tears. "Sure."

Abruptly, he stands; the blanket falls to the floor.

Prompto moves with a purpose, motions jerky and economical. He skims out of his sweatpants – tosses them aside, uncaring where they land. He pulls on a pair of clean jeans, the coeurl-print ones that Noct made fun of in a long-ago time when the sun still rose. He drags on his old shirt and denim vest, Crownsguard black, like a knight donning armor.

Then he says, "I'll be back in two days," and he turns for the door.

Noct's hand catches at his wrist.

When Prompto turns to look, Noct's face is a study in grief. The curve of his mouth, the crease of his brow – every line is etched in pain. Prompto wants to sit back down beside him, to press his lips against the weary helplessness until it fades. He wants to hide them both away, somewhere dark and private, and never tell the world that Noct's returned.

He can handle perpetual darkness. He _can_.

But he doesn't think he can keep it together if he loses Noct again.

"We don't have much time," says Noct, a quiet plea.

"Two days is plenty." Prompto scrubs at his eyes with the back of his hand. He tries to firm his mouth and feels the line of it crumple downward, like wet clay.

"It's not much," says Noct. His mouth works for a moment, helpless, as though he can't quite find what he's trying to get at. "But we could spend it here."

There's an offer in that.

There's something so soft and warm and unexpected in those words that it chips away at Prompto's resolve.

Two days, some traitorous part of his mind whispers. Two days isn't so bad. They can stay in his closet of a room, and Prompto can show off Cindy's mechanical wonders. They can walk down the path of memory and burn a dozen of Iggy's old recipes, trying to replicate them. They can make bad coffee and play the pinball machine Talcott hauled in from old Lestallum.

He can fall asleep at night with Noct pressed up against him, close enough for Prompto to hear him breathe.

For two whole days, they can have everything.

And then Noct can walk away to die.

Prompto stares at his oldest friend for a long, long moment. He reads the half-broken hope that lies beneath the surface of his face.

Then he says, "I'm going," and he turns away again.

"Wait," says Noct, but Prompto is halfway across the room already.

"Would you – Prom, _wait_ a minute." There's an edge to Noct's voice, something brittle. "You're really going?"

Prompto reaches for the doorknob. "Try and stop me."

It's cold beneath his fingers; it twists in his hand, squeaky with lack of grease.

Noct says: "I'll go, too."

Prompto pauses. He lets go of the door, and he turns around.

Noct's still sitting there on the couch, the soft folds of the blanket pooled at his feet. His mouth is a thin line, and his eyes are bright with unshed tears, and he looks remarkably young.

"I'll go, too," Noctis says again, more certain this time. "Only..."

Prompto waits for it. "Only what?"

Noct laughs, a wet, muffled sound. He wipes at his nose with the back of one hand. "Two days is bullshit. We can do better than that."

 

* * *

 

They find Umbra curled up near the wheel of the caravan, a small black figure in the black shadows of always-night.

He's nothing like Pryna; for all their physical similarities, Prompto's always thought that.

Where Pryna was once the helpless Tiny, a creature who invaded the life of a desperately lonely boy at just the right moment, Umbra has always been aloof, all lithe and understated grace. Prompto's never felt the impulse to bury his hands in that thick, black fur, and he's kind of a dog person.

There's something foreboding about Umbra – something set and immovable.

But Noct kneels down beside the dog, heedless that the knees of his black pants stain pale with dust. He offers a hand, and Umbra places a paw into it.

"Hey, boy," says Noct. "We're gonna need your help, after all."

He glances back over his shoulder – catches Prompto's gaze. Prompto nods, the gesture more certain than he feels.

He remembers an ice cave below a waterfall. He remembers standing on slick ground, waiting for his feet to slide out from under him. He's waiting again now.

What does Prompto know about gods, anyway? What makes him think he can navigate a path around the great stone walkways set by a thousand-year-old prophecy?

He's nobody. He's _nothing_.

He's always been the least of them.

But if he backs down now, Noct will draw his sword like a good little soldier and march himself off to die.

So Prompto says, "Let's do this."

And when he closes his eyes, the whole world shifts around him.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys are seriously amazing. Thank you so much for staying with me on this strange and bumpy ride. Your comments and encouragements are amazing to read. <3

Ten years ago, it's the middle of the afternoon.

High above Alstor Slough, the sky is a brilliant edge-of-summer blue, so bright it hurts to look at. Clouds make tiny white smears against it, like whipped cream on top of one of Iggy's meticulously constructed cakes.

And there, hanging in the vault of the heavens, is the sun.

Prompto stares up at it, stunned into silence. It burns his eyes, but he squints and raises a hand above him and peeks through the fingers, not quite able to look away. He stays like that for a long time – so long his eyes water.

He tells himself that's all it is.

When he finally tears his eyes from the sight, sunspots come with him, little black dots that dance across his vision and the rest of the world. Everywhere, the ground is bathed in light. There's warmth on his shoulders, where the sun's rays touch them.

In the distance, he can see the lake. The water reflects the sky; it's clear and glassy, the surface a still, mirror sheen. Stretching away down the slopes of the haven, there are herds of anaks grazing in grass that's plentiful and green. There in the water, the catoblepas are peacefully skimming for algae.

And when Prompto turns to look at Noct, his best friend is twenty years old again. The beard's missing, leaving him fresh-faced and clean-shaven. He's not quite so thin, and the tired set to his mouth has gone. But there's something knowing in his eyes – something older than it ought to be.

Prompto meets his gaze and holds it.

"I guess we better get started," he says at last. He doesn't mean for his voice to come out like that, shaky and overwhelmed.

But Noct just smiles at him, a crooked thing that quirks only one side of his mouth. When he puts a hand on Prompto's shoulder, his fingers close there, steadying. He says, "Why don't you go on and take a minute?"

Prompto's quiet for a beat. He wants to say he's ready – really he does. But objectively, he knows that the future will wait for them. Time won't move from when they knelt beside a small black dog, no matter what they do here in the past.

So he says, "Yeah. Maybe just a minute."

"A minute for what?" says a voice behind him – and Prompto jerks and half-turns, already going for his gun.

It's Gladio, camping gear slung over one shoulder. He's missing two scars, and he's smiling, wide and easy, the way he forgot how to do in the long dark years while Noct was gone.

"For, uh," says Prompto, gun forgotten. "For the, uh."

"Photograph of the catoblepas, I'd imagine," says Ignis, part amusement and part exasperation. "He's only mentioned it seven times since we arrived."

Prompto's head swings toward the voice, chest constricted with some wrenching mixture of elation and dread.

Ignis stands before him, prim and put-together in his button-up shirt. The garment is perfectly pressed, perfectly laundered – not at all the scrap of rags it was the last time Prompto saw it, old-blood brown and pierced through in five separate places.

And there above the pristine white shirt, Iggy's face is smooth and unmarked. His eyes, behind the glasses, are a pale, mossy green.

Prompto presses a hand to his mouth. He thinks he might need to sit down for a while.

Ignis looks at him – really _looks_ at him – and the smooth lines of his brow furrow, the way they do when he's considering a particularly challenging problem. He says, "Are you all right?"

The words slide into Prompto like a splinter of glass: disproportionately painful, for something so small.

Noct gets an arm around him just as his knees give. He sits down, hard, on the stone of the haven, and Noct goes with him, kneeling beside him.

"Hey," says Noct. "Breathe. Take it easy."

"The hell?" says Gladio. "He poisoned or something?"

"Head between your knees," Ignis instructs, and Prompto feels a pressure on the crown of his skull, urging him downward. He goes along with it – puts his head down, so that his entire vision is restricted to a small swatch of rock and a fragment of rune, soft blue light that reflects on the side of his boot.

Prompto takes deep breaths. Noct's hand is on his back, the palm warm through the fabric of his vest.

In the distance, the haunting, rumbling call of the catoblepas echoes out across the wetlands.

 

* * *

 

He's just about got it together by the time the sun goes down. Without all the extra light, Prompto can almost pretend it's business as usual.

He knows this scene, or one like it, from a time after the day disappeared. He knows the rhythm of Gladio cleaning his sword, and he knows the firelight, a flickering glow on Ignis' gloved hands.

Noct is a palpable presence there, on the corner of his thoughts; every time Noct speaks, Prompto's reminded that this isn't really then, or now, but some strange amalgam between the two.

Still. He knows how to handle this.

He falls into his old rhythm without thinking – unpacks the cookware and lays it out in a row, left to right, so that Iggy can find everything he needs. He spreads a cloth on the ground and disassembles his gun; checks it, cleans it, puts it back together again. He digs through his pack to inventory the equipment, examines each item for damage, grades the food by how close it is to rotting. It's a quick way to die, not staying on top of supplies.

He doesn't realize they're all staring until Gladio clears his throat.

"You, uh. You feeling okay?"

Prompto feels their eyes on him, suddenly, like a physical weight. The flush rises to his cheeks and then creeps up to his ears.

"Yeah," he manages. "I just thought, y'know. Maybe-deadly road trip, big scary things with teeth. Doesn't hurt to be ready, right?"

"I guess not," Gladio says, but he's frowning – dubious.

Prompto's aware, distantly, that Noct has crossed over to where Ignis sits in his chair. He's leaning in close to whisper something, and Iggy gives Prompto a considering look.

"Haven't seen any of your pics from today," Gladio says, too casual. "Why don't you get that camera over here and show me what you've got."

He doesn't have many. They're all from before, taken by that younger version of himself: the car trip, and the path to the haven, and the graceful curve of an anak's neck. He has none of the lake, or of the catoblepas.

It didn't even strike him to try. He's forgotten the weight of the camera in his hands. He's lost the habit of searching out beauty, of lining up the perfect shot.

But suddenly, a thought strikes him: if he doesn't take those pictures now, will the album tucked carefully into the corner of his room in Hammerhead be half-empty? Will there be less smiling faces peering out at him, when he flips through images of the past?

Prompto snatches the camera back with what feels like the first prickling chill of panic.

He flashes a grin that's all show, no honesty. Then says, "Smile, Gladio!" and swings the camera up to snap a too-close frame of a startled face.

He takes pictures of Ignis making dinner, of the chocobos sleeping curled up by the fire, of the moon high in the night sky. He takes pictures of Noct: unpacking his bag, playing King's Knight on his phone, amused and fond as he shoos Prompto away and tells him, "C'mon, Prom, that's twenty already. Give it a rest."

When dinner's done, close to an hour later, Prompto finds that it's green curry soup.

He inhales it in about thirty seconds, telling himself the whole while that he's not going to cry – he's _not_.

But when Noct reaches over to nudge him with a foot and says, "There's plenty for seconds, you know," he very nearly breaks that promise.

 

* * *

 

He wakes Noctis at two in the morning.

His phone's the only light in the tent; Gladio's snores practically shake the cloth walls.

It takes a concerted effort to get Noct to stir, and he nearly gets batted aside three times before the groggy king sits up, staring at him with an expression at once both bleary and betrayed.

Prompto's already got the map; he holds it up in one hand, raising his eyebrows, and waves the paper from side to side. Then he uses the corner to point toward the tent flap.

That gets Noct out of the sleeping bag fast enough.

Outside, Prompto holds a finger to his lips – gestures extensively and elaborately, to the effect that Iggy is a damn light sleeper, and they'd better talk in the car. Noct's entirely too amused by his efforts at charades, but he must get the gist of it, because he stops Prompto midway through driving an invisible Regalia and nods.

They make the trek back to the parking spot with just the light of the flashlights mounted on their clothes, the marshy ground sucking at the soles of their boots the whole way.

The car's sleek and gleaming beneath the floodlights, a stately, even black. Noctis sets a hand on her for a moment; the touch lingers, as with regret. Then he shakes himself free from his private considerations and hops into the back seat. Prompto circles around to the other side to join him.

"Okay," says Prompto, and starts unfolding the map. "We know where we've been. And we're pretty thorough, right? So that means we probably haven't missed anything huge."

Noct leans in close to get a better look. "So we zero in on areas we haven't explored."

"Yep." Prompto taps absently at the region names. "By my count, that's a lot of Duscae, and a _whole_ lot of Cleigne."

There's a pause as they both consider the surface area, tiny mountains that seem a lot less daunting on paper than they will on foot.

"Why don't we work our way east to west?" Noct says at last. He lifts one pale finger toward the roads that snake their way across the landscape – traces a route that runs past the chocobo ranch. "If we're going to cover everything anyway, we might as well have some sort of method."

"It'll be easier to keep track of where we've been," Prompto concedes.

Noct's eyes are flickering over the paper, lips a hard line in concentration. At last, he reaches out to indicate a vast swath of wilderness, there in the area marked as the Fallgrove. "I don't think we've even driven this road."

"Gotta be a first time for everything." Prompto says. He nudges Noct with his elbow, though – starts folding up the map again, almost absently. "But we totally have. You were sleeping, dude."

Noct makes a show of rolling his eyes. "Fine. We haven't gone hiking through every square inch of those woods. Better?"

"Just keeping you honest." Prompto flashes a smile that's all innocence.

He doesn't get the laugh he was hoping for, or even the twitch of those lips into something softer. Noct's too busy watching Prompto again, eyes intent and searching, the way they get when he's skimming a pond's surface for the telltale signs of some monster grouper lurking underneath. At last he says: "Speaking of honesty."

Prompto's smile grows crooked at the edges, wry and self-deprecating. "Do we have to?"

"You brought it up," Noct points out. Then his voice turns gentler. "Seriously. How're you holding up?"

Prompto suddenly finds something very interesting in the pattern on his jeans – and beyond them, on the rubber hills and valleys of the Regalia's weather guard rubber floor mats.

"I made a mess of it today, huh?" He shakes his head, reluctant. "I'll do better. Just gonna take some adjustment, is all." His eyes slip sideways to Noct, take in a face that's guarded and unreadable.

"We've got time," Noct says. He's already half-leaning against Prompto's shoulder; now, he angles his head up to press a kiss to Prompto's jaw. "You don't have to push it. We've got time."

He means to add more – opens his mouth to keep going, and then falters into silence, caught on the words.

Prompto remembers, with a sudden surge of affection, how Noctis used to get tongue-tied in high school. How he could throw out commands or assumptions or even advice like it was nothing at all, but when it came to his own feelings, he would stumble and fall, tripped on the tangle of his thoughts.

Prompto's suddenly aware of the warmth pressed up against him – aware of the way Noct's hair tickles against the side of his neck. He twists sideways in the seat, one arm slipping around behind Noct's back, between worn black cloth and the leather of the Regalia's upholstery.

"Hey," Prompto says. "I know."

Then they're kissing – not in Prompto's shell of a room, the world falling apart around them, but in a night bright with moonlight, the low croak of frogs a soundtrack to wandering fingers.

Noct's thorough, and attentive; his hands cup Prompto's face, and his teeth nibble at Prompto's lower lip. He seems to be everywhere at once, the pads of his fingers on every inch of exposed skin. His touches spark like electricity, bringing little shivers of pleasure, and Prompto's starting to go hazy with the feel of it.

Noct tugs at the shirt that blocks his path, just starting to pull it free from the confines of the belt, when a creaking groan fills the night.

It's a sound that lives in Prompto's bones.

When he turns, knowing what he'll see, the image hangs in the air just beyond the parking spot's floodlights: liquid black, bubbling up from the asphalt of the road. An iron giant, growing from shadows and concentrated night, all hulking shoulders and solid, deadly blade.

For a moment, Prompto says nothing at all.

Then he leans back, disentangling himself from Noct. "We can take it."

Noct's eyes are focused on the giant, out there in the darkness. He says, "Maybe we'd better head back."

Prompto feels his expression creep into something incredulous. "You're joking."

It's tremendously unfair, the way Noct looks cool and collected, instead of five seconds away from combusting if they don't pick up where they left off. "You really want to stop every five minutes for the rest of the night to take out daemons?"

Prompto's mouth quirks up; he lifts a hand, and his gun flickers into it, shards of light coalescing into something deadly. "It'll be a work in progress."

"How about we wait till we get a real hotel room, instead?"

Prompto's about to protest – about to say he can make quick work of the thing. But that's when Noct kisses him, sudden wet heat. Tongue is definitely involved. A hand comes to settle on his thigh, where leg meets torso, and Prompto shudders, remembering the scratch of Noct's thumbnail through jeans.

But there's no repeat, not tonight. Noctis just traces a finger up the side of Prompto's leg, where a daemon's sword will leave a scar six years from now.

"The sun'll be up in a few hours," Noct says. "You don't have to get rid of them."

Prompto lifts one hand to Noct's face. He traces his thumb over cheekbone and jaw, and he says, half teasing, "You'd be making a better argument if you didn't have your hand there."

So Noct, insufferably calm, takes his hand away. "How's this for an argument?" He leans in close, breath a warm whisper against Prompto's ear. "I kind of want to see you wound up like that again. If that means we have to wait..."

The words make Prompto's mouth go dry. They ignite beneath his skin, a sudden spike of arousal bright as a flashbulb going off in a darkened room. He takes a shaky breath. "You're the _worst_ ," he says.

And Noctis, last of the royal line of Lucis and future Dawn King, bravest man Prompto's ever known, smirks like a cat that's been presented with twenty thousand gil cream. "Am I?" Noct asks, idly. "They can add it to my titles when they crown me."

Then he opens the car door – hops out and slams it shut behind him.

"You coming, or not?"

Prompto feigns the most annoyed sigh he can possibly manage while fighting not to smile. "Not, I guess."

Noct laughs as he steps out from under the protective glow of the floodlights, breathless and delighted.

And by the time the iron giant realizes they're in range, they're halfway to the haven already, two slim figures casting moon-shadows as they pass beneath the stars.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys so much for all of the amazing comments. The next bit might be a little longer in coming thanks to some things going on in real life, but I'm still on it, and I still hope you enjoy.

Costlemark Tower is a trial of endurance, and considering what Prompto's seen these last ten years, that's saying a lot.

The stone is ancient, a pockmarked monument from another time, set in paths that spiral down and down, into the depths of the earth. They fight for every step of progress they make – against daemons that ooze up in splotches of midnight against the floor and crumbled walkways barely wide enough for one.

Prompto keeps forgetting that he has backup.

He no longer expects Gladio's great sword to be there, cutting an arc through viscous globs of gelatin. He no longer counts on Ignis' knives, small and deadly, to buy him extra time.

Prompto's got it down to an art, three easy steps for fun and profit. One: wade in, arms vibrating with the force of a circular saw that kicks like a mule. Two: dish out what damage he can. Three: retreat to a safe distance and shoot the thing in the face.

Wash, rinse, repeat.

Easy.

Step four's easy, too. Sure, it's the optional let's-try-not-to-need-this-one-so-often step, but when he needs it, boy does he need it.

He needs it now.

Four, Prompto thinks, as the long, slender blade of a ghostly form splits neatly through his calf. The most practical of all steps: get the hell out if you're injured.

The sword slides away in what seems like slow motion; Prompto thinks it scrapes bone, and he yells, short and sharp, when it pulls free. Then he bites his lip on any other reaction, because the sound of pain draws daemons faster than anything he knows.

The wound's bad.

Prompto can't quite get to his feet. There's an alarming amount of blood soaking into the cloth, and he feels like he's lived this moment before, leg sliced open like one of Iggy's filleted fish.

Apply pressure, his mind tells him, on autopilot. Find cover. That crack in the wall – you can fit in there, if you squeeze. Go now.

Then, suddenly, Noct's standing beside him.

He's pressing a potion into Prompto's hand – shattering the glass, so that the healing liquid spills down his arm. The pain fades to tolerable levels; the skin of his leg knits mostly closed in a glimmer of green sparks. For the first time, Prompto remembers that all those energy drinks, empowered by the magic of the king and useless during the long dark years he was away, can grant the gift of life again.

"Thanks," says Prompto, when Noct hauls him back to his feet.

"Wait up next time, showoff," Noct tells him. "Gladio's gonna be pissed if you don't leave any for the rest of us."

"A fair assessment," Ignis acknowledges, driving a spear through the daemon that lies twitching out its last moments on the ground.

"Don't feel like wiping you up off the castle floor, kid," Gladio puts in, wide blade shearing neatly through the ghostly figure that had downed Prompto in the first place. "Blood does you more good on the inside."

"Got it," Prompto says, and takes Noct's offered hand, to pull him to his feet. "Blood on the inside."

After that, he adds step five: quit forgetting your friends are here.

 

* * *

 

They find the doors halfway down the tower, and Prompto stops dead in his tracks to stare.

They're beautiful.

Ancient like the rest of the place? Sure. Ravaged by the passage of time? Definitely.

But they're tall and slender, set with symmetrical lines that radiate out like the rays of the rising sun. The gilt catches the flashlights mounted on their clothes, and Prompto stands transfixed by the sight.

It shouldn't come as such a shock. He thinks he recalls, half a lifetime ago, seeing a door like this one.

But he knows it in some other way, too. He's seen it more recently. It puts him in mind of a small, white dog, scratching for entry.

Prompto's speaking before he means to. "No way we can't check this out."

There's nothing behind the doors. Nothing good, anyway. They find more daemons, and some treasure he doesn't care about.

But seeing it – knowing it's there – kindles something soft and bright at the center of him. For the first time, Prompto imagines what the end of this road might be.

To his surprise, his imagination shows him the sunrise, with Noct standing there beside him.

 

* * *

 

 

It's four and a half days before they stagger out of Costlemark, all of them half dead.

The trip to the hotel passes in groggy silence, and Ignis drinks four cans of Ebony, one after the next, just to stay awake for the drive.

When they make it to the clerk window at two in the morning, filthy and swaying on their feet, the old man just raises an eyebrow. "Looks like you boys've had a helluva time."

Noct slides him a pile of gil.

"Two rooms," he says. "Two days."

It's a testament to how tired Ignis is that he doesn't say a single word about the budget.

Noct hands a key to Gladio in the hall – hooks Prompto by the elbow and tows him along toward the door that has their room number picked out in raised and desiccated plastic.

It's nothing like romantic.

Noct calls dibs on the shower and makes a beeline for the bathroom, leaving Prompto alone in the room itself, exhausted to the point of nausea.

He wants nothing more than to flop down on a bed and never move again, but he'd wreck the blankets in his current state, all hard-packed grime and old blood, and he has no illusions as to what Ignis will say about their finances if they have to replace bedding. So that leaves the floor. And sure, he's slept worse places, but he knows damn well that if he sits down, he won't get up again for at least twelve hours, and leaving that bed unused seems like the worst crime he can possibly imagine.

So he stays standing, the half-resting stance he's grown to favor for when he pulls watch duty at Hammerhead.

His feet ache; his legs feel like every individual muscle has been stripped from the bone. There's a cut on his shoulder that's still bleeding sluggishly, and his eyes feel gritty and strange, the way they get when he hasn't slept in too long.

By the time Noct's out, dripping and clean, Prompto's almost ready to bunk down on the floor, after all. But he rallies his willpower at the last minute, promising himself the luxury of a real bed.

The bathroom's about the size of a closet. The tile's cracked, and the curtain that hangs from the rod is a sad, deflated little scrap of off-white.

But when he steps into the shower, the water runs hot, and steam furls out like the tendrils of a vine made all of mist, making the air so thick he can taste it on his tongue when he breathes in.

The water pressure's a little slice of bliss. The spray pounds against his back – heavenly warmth against muscles taut and trembling with fatigue. He leans his forehead against the wall, soaking it in, and his mind drifts, distant and unfocused. He closes his eyes, just for an instant, to rest them.

A moment later, Prompto jerks upright with a start, realizing he'd begun to list to one side. A hasty hand gropes for the soap, in a rush to wash up before he falls asleep standing up.

What an obituary that would be.

Prompto Argentum: survived the end of the world and went on to crack his head open in the shower.

The hotel's soap is ginger and citrus. It cuts through the grime that Costlemark caked into his skin, sending cascades of grey swirling down the drain. By the time he climbs out and reaches for the towel, the only signs of the tower are the bruise that swallows half his left side, the wet red edges of the cut across his shoulder, and the potion-scabbed outline of the sword wound through his calf.

Prompto's wrung out – barely standing. Getting himself clean suddenly feels like it was a second trial of endurance, a battle equal in scale to the first.

He drops the towel on the floor and stands in the bathroom doorway, swaying slightly, staring out at the room as he tries to muster the energy to take the half-dozen steps to the bed.

Noct's there already, damp hair spread across the pillow. In sleep, the lines are gone from his face. He looks no different than he has a hundred times before, napping on the couch of his apartment in Insomnia, asleep before he could be bothered to take off his rumpled school clothes. Prompto wants to admire the view, wants to take a minute to appreciate how at peace his best friend seems in this moment.

But his body is crying out for rest, an ache so deep it feels as though it's nestled at the core of him. He barely has the presence of mind to fumble for his pack and step into a pair of sleep shorts – chocobo print, the ones Gladio used to make fun of relentlessly. He spares a brief consideration for the chill of the night, for the possibility of a shirt to keep him warmer, but his brain rebels at the thought of spending even one second longer standing upright.

Prompto all but collapses onto the bed, sliding under the covers beside Noct – suffers through that first, sweet moment, when his legs and feet, now no longer supporting his weight, throb in remembered strain. The blankets feel like water against his skin, smooth and light. The pillow under his head is deliciously soft.

He realizes, belatedly, that it's been probably seven years since the last time he slept in a bed with a real mattress.

He wants to appreciate that. He does.

But his eyes are closed already, consciousness slipping away as sleep clutches at him with seductive fingers and drags him under.

 

* * *

 

Prompto wakes to something cold and wet pressed against his cheek.

When he opens his eyes, he discovers it's Pryna's nose. She nuzzles his face – whines, low in her throat, and licks his hand. Her tail is wagging, but slow and uncertain, anxious rather than pleased.

It's not until Prompto sits up that he realizes where he is.

Metal corridors and harsh fluorescent lights suck the life from Niflheim's experimental facility, but there are no bars over the doors here, thank the gods. And he's not restrained, as he's half expecting to be. When he staggers to his feet, a wash of terror icy down his spine, that's what he clings to.

Pryna doesn't wait for him to get his bearings. She's already halfway down the hall and turning back, as though impatient, to bark at him.

"Okay, okay," says Prompto. "Hold up, I'm coming."

The corridors are long, broken with little besides bolts and shelves and insets that could provide cover if he needed it. But the halls are empty, the only sound that of the _click_ , _click_ of Pryna's claws and the heavier echo of Prompto's boots.

At last the walkway turns, bringing him to an open door. The room is full of scaffolding, all bare metal; he can see another level below him, if he looks through the gaps in the flooring. Against the wall, metal pods hang like strange fruit. Just the look of them makes Prompto's skin crawl.

Pryna doesn't stop in this room. She leads him past it, to a set of stairs, and they climb down and down, into the depths of cold, unfeeling clinical hell.

And there at the bottom, she comes to a stop near a door picked out in gold.

Pryna sits down at the base of it. She looks back at Prompto and wags her tail, as if to say, see? I did good, didn't I?

Prompto feels his face soften into a smile, despite the trickle of fear running down the back of his neck like melting ice.

He says, "Good girl, Tiny."

And he reaches to push the door open.

A hand settles on his shoulder, then. Prompto knows to it belongs to without looking – fights the scream that builds in his throat. He jerks backward and around to find Ardyn, insufferably smug, standing on the bottom step.

It's like there's a switch to send him straight into panic mode, and Ardyn flips it just by being there. Prompto tries to edge away; his back hits the door and he stands there, breathing hard. He reaches for his gun – feels the magic shift, then falter, then die.

Of course. Of course. Noct's not here.

"What precisely were you hoping to accomplish?" Ardyn says. He takes the extra step down, so that he stands on level ground. Prompto still has to look up at him, a fact that he's sure the other man is well aware of.

"More time?" Ardyn's hand reaches out to touch his chin, and Prompto smacks him away, heart hammering, absurdly grateful that he's free to fend off the touch. "A few hours? A few weeks?"

"None of your godsdamned business," Prompto says. He means to growl it – means for it to be harsh and threatening. But what comes out instead is shaky and breathless, frankly afraid.

"Let me tell you a secret," Ardyn purrs. "Man to man."

He leans in, so near Prompto can feel the heat of him, like a furnace running with all the windows glued shut, stuffy and close.

"Every story is a tragedy," says Ardyn. "The only difference lies in how long you drag it out before it ends."

Prompto's eyes flicker over Ardyn's face, entirely too near. He's tense with the expectation of pain; he thinks if Ardyn touches him, he'll scream.

But Ardyn draws away.

"That's all," he says, with a mocking little bow. "Do what you will with my wisdom of the ages." And just like that, Prompto jerks awake.

He doesn't come to screaming, the way he sometimes does – but his heart is slamming in his throat like it's trying to choke him. His skin's slick with sweat, and the room is dark, and his first thought is that they're dead. They're all dead. The floodlights have gone out and he needs his gun, he's going to be too late in about 3.5 seconds, if he's not too late already.

He reaches out to the plastic table by his bed for the weapon – feels his stomach lurch sideways when it isn't there. A fraction of a second later, he's across the room and pawing at his bag, looking for something, anything, that will hold off the daemon hordes he's sure will be pouring in any second now.

Then his mind catches up with his body, and he tallies up the evidence.

Bathroom. Towel on the floor. Bed. Noct, still asleep, twisted there in the covers.

Prompto takes a shaky breath and lets it out slow. He takes another, for good measure.

The sweat's drying on his skin, leaving him chilled in the night air, wearing nothing but his sleep shorts. He's shaking, some combination of relief and unspent adrenaline.

Prompto just stands there for a minute, letting himself calm down – letting his thoughts kick into gear and remind him where he is, and who he's with, and that neither of them is likely to die in the next few minutes.

There, he thinks. You see? Doing okay.

To prove it to himself, he takes stock of the situation – of himself. He still aches, the deep ache of muscles pushed past exhausted. His side throbs when he moves too fast. He's hungry, but it's not dire – not as hungry as he's been all too often, these past ten years. Still, it's hungry in a different kind of way: a five-days-in-a-daemon-filled-tower-with-nothing-but-protein-bars-and-jerky kind of way.

His stomach's not happy with him. It's had a short run of great meals, and just when it was starting to get used to the treatment, he's got it on half-rations again.

"Sorry," he says, absently. "Dinner's coming up."

He turns on the bedside table lamp, and by its light digs the hotel room coffee maker out of a fake-wood cabinet. He sets it up to run without grounds or a filter, stumbles into the bathroom to relieve himself and wash up. By the time he's done, the coffee machine's just about finished; the water comes out hot and coffee-free, and Prompto pours it into a foam container of Cup Noodes.

He's counting down for it to be ready – has already hit two minutes – when he hears Noct shift on the bed behind him. Then Noct's voice comes, still thick with sleep. "What time is it?"

For the first time, it occurs to Prompto to check. The numbers on the clock blink out at him, square and red. "Uh," he says. "Eight?"

They've slept through the day and straight on into night. How is it that he's still tired?

Noct makes a considering noise from the bed. "Sounds about right." After a moment, he leans himself up onto one elbow – peers in Prompto's general direction, hair a bird's nest of strands poking up at strange angles. "Are those noodles?"

"Yeah," says Prompto. "Hungry?"

He laughs at the king of Lucis, sprawled out on the bed in a cheap hotel room, making grabby hands for instant noodles – feels a warm swell of affection as he presses the foam container into Noct's palm and circles back around to make another one for himself.

They eat sitting on the rumpled blankets, Prompto in his chocobo sleep shorts, Noct barely awake. In between slurps, they talk about driving routes, and new targets, and how they're supposed to keep Gladio and Ignis convinced they're still looking for a royal arm, if they manage all thirteen before the real search is done.

They don't find answers – but they do find the bottoms of their noodle cups.

Noct sets his aside – flops back to the pillows with the determined air of a long-distance runner before a marathon. "I'm going back to bed," he announces.

They've been asleep for a ridiculous amount of time already – but as soon as Noct floats the possibility of more sleep, it sounds like the most appealing idea Prompto's ever heard. It sounds like lazy weekends with nowhere to be and no one to wake him, in his long-ago bedroom in Insomnia, afternoon sun already starting to stream in through the window.

"Scoot over," he says. He chucks the Cup Noodle container at the trash can – makes to turn the lamp off. He hesitates there, finger above the switch, then leaves it on.

This time, when he crawls into bed beside Noct, they're both awake enough to tuck in next to one another, warm and close.

Noct smells like the hotel shampoo, ginger and citrus. It's a clean smell, sharp, and when Noct pulls in against him, presses his forehead to Prompto's, the scent of it carries him back off into sleep.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now, an interlude with porn.
> 
> (Sorry, guys. I promise that plot will resume next chapter.)

Prompto dreams of nothing.

It's not that he doesn't dream – but rather that the dreamscape, this time, is empty. There's no horizon, no walls. There's only white space, as far as the eye can see, like a piece of paper unmarked by any pen.

"Hey," says Prompto, into the nothingness. "Anybody here?"

No answer comes – but he's aware, vaguely, of the prickling certainty of being watched. The sensation presses on him like a physical weight, constrictive and overwhelming.

"Hello?" Prompto tries again.

No reply comes.

He strains his ears, trying to pick out a voice, or even breathing, but all that he can find is the vast, ringing silence.

And then, somewhere in the distance, a dog barks.

For the first time in a long time, Prompto comes awake not with a start of terror and a hammering heart. Instead, consciousness filters back in slowly, the dream walking him to the door and then seeing him out, courteous and cold.

Prompto opens his eyes to the yellow light of the hotel lamp, to the water stain on the ceiling above him, to the folds of sheets rumpled around him, still suffused with body heat.

It's nice.

He lingers in that pleasant half-aware state between waking and sleep for a long time, appreciating that he's warm, and comfortable, and there's nothing he needs.

The hotel clock tells him that it's six, and by the grey light filtering in under the thick cloth of the curtains, Prompto's willing to bet it's morning. He's lost a whole day, spent on nothing but recovery; he has a whole day ahead of him with nothing planned, until they get back on the road again.

Prompto grins, and goes to see the coffeemaker about some caffeine.

It's the King's Knight music that wakes Noct – the cheery jingle Prompto's all but forgotten. It plays during the battle sequences, his favorite music in the game, bright and full of adventure. Noct groans like he's being  eviscerated.

"Morning, sleeping beauty," Prompto says, and taps his phone rapid-fire to finish casting a spell. He used to know how to do this, but he's lost his sense of the controls; this battle's turning downhill pretty fast. "Coffee's on the table. Might be cold, though."

Noct makes a noise reminiscent of a wounded catoblepas and slides over the side of the bed onto the floor. Prompto glances up, startled – laughs as his oldest friend staggers toward the bathroom like a zombie out of the shoot-em-up arcade games Prompto used to be so good at.

He's distracted just long enough for his party to get wiped out, but it's worth it.

Noct reappears some fifteen minutes later, decidedly less bleary-eyed: face washed, hair brushed but not styled, scratching absently at his stomach where his sleep shirt's rucked up to expose a patch of pale skin.

Prompto's distracted enough by _that_ to die a second time, and he sighs and taps the game closed.

"How come I don't remember the Crystal Caverns boss being so hard?" he grouses, stretching out his legs and flopping onto his back.

"Cause we always had a party of four." Noct crosses to the coffeemaker like it's the fountain of eternal youth. He pours a cup – dumps in two packets of powdered creamer, stirs, and takes a sip. His face crumples into something between disgust and distress. "Sweet Six. What did you do to this coffee?"

"Made it fresh and hot, two hours ago," Prompto shoots back. "Not my fault you were in bed long enough for it to turn into motor oil."

Noct takes another sip. He pulls a face. Then he chugs it, like some poor kid trying vodka for the first time, pretending to like it so their friends don't laugh. "Ugh," he says, with feeling, and drops the cup into the trash. "Time doesn't make anything that gross. There's got to be something wrong with it in the first place."

It's such a catch-all claim that Prompto rallies to the challenge. "Rotten eggs," he offers, grinning. "Week-old fish."

"Smartass." But Noct's wearing that half-smile he always gets when he's amused and trying to hide it. He flops down on the bed next to Prompto – stretches out sideways, so that his head's pillowed on Prompto's bare stomach. His hair's smooth and soft against the skin.

"You got it," Prompto agrees. "Only the smartest of asses for his royal highness."

Noct reaches around to flick him on the knee; Prompto jerks, laughing, the sensation more ticklish than painful. He could retaliate – turn it into a pillow fight the likes of which they haven't seen since high school. But he thinks he'd rather have Noct stay right where he is, truth be told.

So instead, Prompto reaches a hand down to thread it through Noct's hair. The feel of it through his fingers, sleek and clean, makes a tiny flock of sparrows spring to life somewhere in his stomach. He's pretty sure they're sparrows, anyway. They're way too rowdy for butterflies.

"Mm," Noct says, distantly. "That's nice."

So Prompto does it again, and then again.

They stay like that for a long time – long enough that Noct's breathing starts to even out into the steady rhythm that Prompto recognizes as heralding sleep.

He has to laugh at that. "Oh, no," says Prompto. "No way." He doesn't give Noct a chance to respond. He just sits up, all at once, so that Noct's head, pillowed on his stomach, slides down into his lap instead. "We've been asleep forever, dude."

Noct cracks an eye open to peer up at him. "You're just bored without someone to keep you entertained."

"Damn straight I'm bored." Prompto leans down, so that their faces are parallel, barely six inches apart. Noct's trying to look flat and unamused, nigh on unreadable, but there's a glimmer in his eyes that gives him away.

"You can say it," Noct says.

Prompto blinks at him. "Say what?"

Noct angles himself upward – presses a kiss to Prompto's chin. "That I've got promises to keep."

Suddenly, Prompto's mind jumps back nearly a week, to the Regalia's back seat, the smell of leather upholstery, the captivating gleam of the stars. He hadn't been thinking it, but now he very much is.

Noct's lips are incredibly appealing, and Prompto leans down to brush a kiss against them. "Well," he says, "I mean. Who am I to make you a dishonest man?"

The poker face cracks at that; Noct's smile creeps up one side of his mouth, crooked and fond.  "Selfless of you."

"I'm looking out for your virtue, buddy." Prompto grins, bright and earnest. "What would you do without me?"

Noct makes a show of thinking it over. At last he says, "Probably go back to sleep." Then he says, "Ow!" when Prompto pokes him in the ribs.

"It's a good idea to be nice to the guy whose lap you're using as a pillow. Fair warning." Prompto's planning to add more, but eighty percent of the coherent thoughts in his brain abandon ship when Noct lifts a hand and runs it up his thigh, slow and steady.

"I can do nice," says Noct.

That hand reaches Prompto's hip and then trails its way back down. Prompto shifts, intimately aware of how little he's wearing, and how many days it's been since he and Noct managed a few frantic moments in his room in Hammerhead. He's blushing, he's sure; he can feel his face burning.

"You wanna sit up?" Prompto manages, from a throat that's gone dry.

Noct gives it due consideration, humming thoughtfully. "Nah," he says at last. "This way, I've got you trapped."

He kind of does. With his head there and Prompto's legs crossed, they're not going anywhere anytime soon, unless he dumps Noct like a sack of rice.

Noct's hand runs back up again, fingers skirting over the plain, rumpled fabric of chocobo-print sleep shorts.

The touch doesn't stop there; it finds the sensitive skin of Prompto's hip and lingers. Prompto swallows thickly. "Anyone ever tell you you're a jerk?"

Noct has the nerve to laugh. It's a quiet thing, entirely too self-satisfied. It also brightens his face in a way that's indescribably, unfairly beautiful, and Prompto bends over nearly double to kiss him.

It's awkward as hell. People aren't made for upside-down kisses. Everything seems to be in the wrong spot, teeth determined to get in the way, but they give it a go, all searching tongues and careful exploration. Noct's arm stretches up, as far as he can reach, to brush his fingers against the still-clothed skin of Prompto's inner thigh.

Prompto jerks like he's been burned. He _feels_ like he's been burned, huge swaths of him entirely too hot for the room, lines of fire along his skin everywhere Noct touches.

When they break apart, Prompto says, "Noct. C'mon, dude. Sit up."

Noct pulls him in for another kiss instead.

This one is no less awkward. There are no shoulders to wrap his arms around, no body to pull in close. But they give it their level best, tongues searching, teeth nipping. Noct's fingers are maddeningly close to the tent in Prompto's sleep shorts, trailing back and forth against the skin of his thigh almost absently.

They break apart gasping. "Noct," Prompto says, and winces a little at how close to a whine that was.

And Noct, praise all the Six and every one of their ridiculous number of Messengers, sits up.

This time, the kiss is at the right angle. This time, Prompto gets an arm around Noct and pulls him closer. He rears up on his knees – cross-legged is not the best position for the kind of skin-to-skin contact he needs right now – and Noct comes with him, scooting in so that they're flush against one another.

Noct's hard already, a solid heat through the thin black fabric of his pajama pants. Prompto can feel it pressed against his hip, like a promise of things to come.

He rocks forward, needing the friction, but the mattress wobbles beneath his knees. It's hard to get the leverage he needs, like this. He can't do much besides shift restlessly from side to side.

Noct must feel the same way, because as soon as they break for air again, he gets his hands on Prompto's shoulders and pushes backward. "Down," he breathes, against Prompto's lips. "Lie down."

Prompto doesn't need to be asked twice. He flops back against the pillows – knows an instant of self-consciousness as Noct lingers there, watching him. It's not that he worries about the faint traces of stretch marks on his stomach anymore. He's had too many other things to worry about, for way too long.

But he's still just him. Still just Prompto, and this man, hovering above him with an unreadable expression and eyes the color of coming night, is _everything_. Doubt thrums through him like long-lost family coming home, all the familiar whispers of not good enough playing in his head, in stereo.

Then Noct says, "Gods. Look at you," and his voice is tender, almost reverent.

It shuts the whispers up faster than anything ever has before.

Noct crawls forward to settle himself, the long line of him pressed warm against Prompto's bare skin. It feels amazing – almost overwhelmingly good, just to be this close to him.

Prompto quirks a smile and lifts one hand up to thread it through Noct's sleep-mussed hair. "Think the gods have better stuff to do with their day than play voyeur."

Noct's brow furrows in momentary confusion. Then he snorts a laugh. "Okay, sure. Break the mood. See if I care."

"No," says Prompto, "But think about it. Picture, like, Shiva –"

" _Prompto_ ," says Noct, and drags him in for a kiss to keep him from saying anything else.

Not like Prompto cares. It's a good kiss, enthusiastic and borderline sloppy. It even comes with Noct's knee, nudged up against the junction between Prompto's thighs.

He rocks his hips forward, experimentally – feels Noct shudder against him and respond in kind. Prompto thinks he could finish like this, just wet kisses and sweet friction. He's mortifyingly close already.

Then Noct's pulling away, lifting himself up and off, and Prompto makes a small keening noise, somewhere in his throat. Noct smiles down at him, entirely too amused. "You really do get wound up, don't you?"

Noct's hand settles over Prompto's hip. His thumb grazes the bulge in the fabric, where a noticeable wet spot has formed, and Prompto presses forward into the touch.

"But hang on a sec," Noct tells him, and takes the hand away. "I want to try something else, this time."

Prompto can't seem to get enough air. He nods, and swallows, and nods again. "Yeah," he says. "Sure. Just, let's get moving."

Noct gets moving.

He kisses Prompto just below the jaw, on the pulse point. He kisses the line of his throat, and the curve of the collarbone. He kisses the pink circle of a nipple, and Prompto shivers and shifts against the barely-there sensation.

"Let's get moving _faster_ ," Prompto corrects, and he can feel the warm huff of Noct's laughter.

The kisses turn open-mouthed, wet touches of tongue that explore the bare skin of his chest. Then they trail lower, to the flat planes of his stomach, to the navel, to the sparse line of hair that stretches out below it, disappearing into sleep shorts that have grown painfully tight.

Noct hovers for an instant, as though considering. Then he kisses Prompto, so gently, through the fabric of the shorts, right at the tip where the cloth's wet and clinging.

Prompto gasps and jerks into it – whines softly as Noct pulls away.

But whatever protest he might have made dries up unspoken when Noct hooks a thumb over the waistband of the shorts and pulls down, inch by careful inch.

It's embarrassing how hard he is. He's red and dripping, and the whole length of him gives a decidedly interested twitch when Noct draws nearer. But the line of kisses doesn't continue; instead, Noct raises a single finger to trace it around the tip.

Prompto groans like he's dying. The touch is light – almost exploratory – but the positioning's just perfect. The combination, somehow too much and not enough both at once, has Prompto's head slamming back into the pillows, mouth open as he tries to get more air. "Noct," he says, but the rest of the words desert him.

Then Noct's hand deserts him, too, and Prompto looks up, utterly betrayed, in time to see the long, clear trail of precome that still connects Noct's finger to the tip of his erection.

Somewhere beyond it, Noct's looking at him like he's trying to get his fill, filing the sight away for future lonely nights. His eyes are half-lidded; his cheeks are flushed. His mouth is parted just a little, and as Prompto watches, his tongue darts out to wet his lips. It's the sexiest thing Prompto's ever seen, and maybe he thought he couldn't get any more turned on, but that visual, all by itself, dumps a whole boatload of coal on the flames.

"Noct," he manages, voice coming out strangled. "Seriously. I'm dying here."

"Yeah?" says Noct. "Want me to do something about it?" But his best friend, the absolute insufferable sadist, ignores Prompto entirely in favor of slipping his hands below the waistband of his own pajama pants and drawing out his erection. He wraps his fingers around it, gives an experimental stroke and shudders at the touch.

Prompto watches him with wide eyes. "Why am I friends with you, again?" he says, shakily.

Then he props himself up – gets his elbows under him, meaning to make a lunge for it and pull Noct back down on top of him.

No sooner has he begun than Noct leans forward and presses a kiss to the place he wants it most. It's closed-mouthed and chaste, just below the head, and Prompto shivers and falls back to the pillows, half-formed plan aborted.

"Were you saying something?" Noct kisses him again, right on the tip; then his lips part and the tongue darts out, an experimental lick that drowns Prompto in waves of heat.

"Nothing," Prompto says. "Nothing – keep _going_."

His hands scrabble vaguely at Noct's shoulders, trying to encourage him; he's aware, distantly, of the slick sound of Noct touching himself.

Then Noct's lips are parting; there's sudden wet heat, and Prompto's brain shorts out. He can't seem to remember how to breathe – finds that his hands have taken hold of the sheets and are holding them in a death grip.

The heat spreads as Noct works his mouth down, velvet-smooth; Prompto's hips lurch, seeking more, faster, now, but he doesn't seem to be getting much traction. It takes him a minute to realize, fuzzily, that that's because there's a forearm draped over his hips, pinning him in place.

That's okay, though. He can handle that. He thinks he can handle anything, as long as Noct keeps doing what he's doing, setting an awkward, messy rhythm that's got Prompto gasping open-mouthed, every nerve in his body bright with electricity.

He's not going to last. He can't last. He was worked up already, with just a few simple touches; he doesn't stand a chance against this.

"Noct," breathes Prompto. He thinks he means it as a warning. The muscles in his thighs are taut and trembling; he can feel his abdomen starting to clench.

He bites at his own lip, hard, and the pleasure rolls over him like Mt. Ravatogh's lava. For an instant, everything whites out but sensation; his back arches up off the bed as he comes with a strangled cry, and his toes curl against the starchy fabric of the hotel comforter.

When he comes back to himself, the first thing he's aware of is Noct, stunned and disheveled, wearing an expression Prompto's never seen before. Prompto reaches down, feeling as though he's caught in a dream. He curls his fingers over Noct's, where they're still working his own length.

That's all it takes. Noct seizes – goes still – breathes in sharp and sudden.

Prompto lifts his free hand to run his fingers through Noct's hair as he comes, pets him while he shudders. And when Noct crawls up to join him, languid and sated, Prompto slips an arm around him.

For a long moment, neither of them say anything at all. There's too much to say; the words seem crowded in his throat, tangled together, so intertwined that he can't get anything out.

So instead Prompto reaches up, with the pad of his thumb. He brushes it gently against Noct's cheek. "Think we're gonna need another shower."

And Noct smiles, that soft, private smile he doesn't wear very often. "And some real breakfast. Those Cup Noodles wore off a long time ago."

But they stay there for five more minutes anyway, because neither of them can quite bear to move.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 8: in which Prompto is bad at planning.
> 
> Also, can I just say thank you so much to everyone who's taken the time to leave kudos or comments? The response to this fic has been overwhelming, and I appreciate it SO so much. You are all amazing, you don't even know. <3
> 
> UPDATE! The incredibly talented, incredibly kind rah-bop [drew a scene](http://rah-bop.tumblr.com/post/159503239121/gift-for-asidian-an-illustration-for-their-ffxv) from this chapter!

They spend the better part of three weeks scouring the Lucian countryside.

The days are filled with the Regalia's top down and the wind in his hair; with campfires that crackle at night; with stolen moments by Noct's side, pressed up against walls at rundown rest stops or beneath towering trees in the early evening, before Gladio can prod them into helping pitch the tent.

The trip's filled with daemons, too – crawling things that infest the places they search for information, that fight and claw and leave new wounds to be washed away by magic.

But honestly, Prompto doesn't mind the daemons. Everything else is so good, the daemons feel like an afterthought.

It's kind of incredible. There's food every night, and he wakes every morning to his friends' faces. The camera's starting to feel less like a useless lump of plastic in his hands, and more like a means of capturing something precious. Even his nightmares, a constant companion for ten years, seem to have dried up. He dreams a lot about an empty space, with some vague notion of being watched. He doesn't wake up screaming, anymore.

Still, it's not like they don't have problems.

With a search this thorough, Noct's uncovered all but one of his ancestors' weapons already. Prompto knows _Ignis_ know that one of them's in Tenebrae – the one Noct has but isn't supposed to have, yet – and that means they've got just one left out there. It's their only excuse to keep looking.

They're going to need a plan.

Prompto gets his opportunity later that day, when they pull in to Old Lestallum and Iggy announces they need to stock up on curatives.

Noct says, "Have fun. I'm gonna catch us something for dinner."

It's a bit of a walk to the fishing spot on the river from here, but Noct's done it before – ditched out on supply runs in favor of a few extra minutes with just the tug of the line and the sound of rushing water.

It's the perfect chance to catch him alone and talk business. "I'll keep him company," Prompto offers, and vaults over the car door without bothering to open it.

From the back seat, Gladio gives a snort. "Keep him company? Is that what they're calling it these days?"

For a beat, Prompto's brain skips right over the implication and goes on its merry way. Then his thoughts skid to a halt faster than a chocobo outside a mine, and he turns, open-mouthed, to see if Gladio meant that the way it sounded like he meant that.

He totally did. He's amused, and entirely too smug, and suddenly Prompto's face feels like it's approximately five hundred degrees warmer than it needs to be.

"Uh," says Prompto.

Noct's blushing, too; he can see it out of the corner of his eye.

"We," says Noct. "It's, um."

Ignis clicks his tongue, that brisk and impatient sound he sometimes makes when he has work he's being kept from. "Just be back in time for dinner," he cuts in. "And do try to find time for an actual fish or two, won't you?"

Impossibly, Prompto's face gets hotter.

Noct ducks his head. He manages a strangled, "Sure thing, Specs, " and he grabs Prompto by the arm to haul him, unprotesting, toward the roadside.

For a long moment, neither of them say anything. Then Prompto manages, "What do you think gave us away?"

Noct fixes him with a sidelong glance. "You," he says, tone dry, "Being loud."

Prompto covers his face in his hands. The heat feels like he's going to bake through his fingers. "How about you go fishing, and I hide in a hole somewhere and never come out?"

Noct reaches out to elbow him. "No deal. I'm not putting up with Gladio's teasing alone."

The thought of Gladio's teasing as a sustained, ongoing event drags a groan from Prompto. "Kill me now."

"No deal on that, either," says Noct, fondly, and starts walking.

They follow the roadside, just the pair of them, to the place where steps lead down to the river – cross to the concrete outcropping that serves as the ugliest fishing spot in Lucis. Prompto sits on the ledge, feet dangling, while Noct materializes his fishing rod in a glimmer of magic.

At last Prompto says, "It'll be nice not sneaking around anymore."

Noct snorts. He gropes for the fishing line – fits something green and flashing to the end. "Should've known we couldn't keep anything from Ignis, anyway. How the hell does he always _know_ everything?"

It's a great opening, considering that's exactly what they need to talk about.

"Speaking of keeping stuff from Iggy," Prompto says. He lets it hang there, like the hook Noct's busy casting into the water.

After a minute, Noct bites. "I can't come up with anything. I've been thinking about it."

Prompto kicks his feet and watches the water rush past, ten feet below the soles of his boots. "I've got an idea."

Noct starts to reel, but his eyes slide sideways, attention on Prompto.

So Prompto says, "Next time we get a lead, I'll go in first."

"You," Noct says, flatly.

"Sure," Prompto says. "I'll take the weapon off the statue and go ditch it someplace we've already been. That way we know where it is, we can pick it up anytime we need it, and Iggy and Gladio still think we're down a sword. The search continues."

Noct is silent for probably thirty seconds. His face has gone smooth and blank, the way it gets when he's trying to mask something he doesn't want to give away. "That's the worst idea I've ever heard," he says.

Prompto picks at the leather straps on his bracelet. He recognizes the action for what it is – an old nervous habit he hasn't touched for going on five years. He forces his hand to let go, stretches his arms out behind him and leans back on his palms. "But it would work."

Noct casts again, a bit harder than he really needs to. "It would get you killed."

Prompto tips his head back so that he's looking up at the sky instead of at Noct. "I mean, it's not like I don't have practice fighting solo."

The reply's too long in coming.

"We'll figure out another way," Noct says at last.

The sky's pretty. It's starting to go pale with the oncoming sunset, clouds tinging pink out toward the horizon. It's still the ugliest fishing spot in Lucis, but even the hard concrete lines of the river banks seem charming right now, bathed in the deep orange of the afternoon sunlight.

"What if we don't?" Prompto asks.

There's no reply. After a minute, Prompto realizes that there's no whir of the reel, either, nor the splash of a fish struggling for freedom. When he looks, he discovers that Noct's watching him, fishing rod dangling forgotten from one hand.

"We'll figure out another way," Noct says again, voice hard but strangely brittle.

Prompto quirks a crooked smile and pushes himself to his feet. He crosses the distance between him and slips his arms around Noct's neck.

"Hey," he says. "Quit worrying."

Noct wants to say more. Prompto knows by the way he takes a breath in, the way his shoulders are too tight.

Prompto cuts him off by leaning up to kiss him.

A few minutes later, the king of Lucis banishes the fishing rod from his hand. Contrary to Ignis' request, he does not in fact catch anything for dinner.

 

* * *

 

They get a lead three days later.

Ignis unfolds the map across the hood of the Regalia and indicates Mt. Ravatogh, there in the distance, spewing smoke and slow-running lava. They've been there before; Prompto took a picture, standing amid flames, sure that the soles of his boots must be melting off. Then they turned around and climbed back down, never pushing on to find the mountain's other secrets.

Prompto finds himself looking at the horizon, where the shape of the peak is an ever-present feature against the sky.

It doesn't look that far. And he remembers what they found there – saphyrtails and spiracorns, nothing he can't handle.

It's late afternoon, and Prompto's trigger finger itches already.

 

* * *

 

"Shh," says Prompto, stroking his hand along Cinnamon's neck. "Easy, girl."

The chocobo doesn't take it easy. She snaps up the curiel greens like she hasn't eaten in a week – laughable, considering  Prompto fed her plenty, not three hours before.

Still, she seems to appreciate the late-night snack.

She gobbles it straight from his hand, the dying firelight catching in her red-orange feathers, and when she's finished and Prompto swings up into the saddle, she puffs up like a carnation, pleased and proud. Prompto leans forward to scratch at the short fluff dusting her check. "Okay," he says, "Let's do this."

And just like that, they're off. The campsite falls behind them, Gladio's snores echoing away into the distance like a circular saw that can't quite kick to life.

He's forgotten this – one more thing among many.

It's been a long time since he's felt the night breeze in his hair, the circle of light around him illuminating momentary flashes of trees and rocks that rise from the darkness and are gone. The bird below him is years dead, back in his real time, one more tragedy nestled among tragedies thick enough to choke. With her died the steady clop of talons on the earth and the heavy, musty scent of chocobo when he leans down to take the reins.

The daemons come – small surprise. But when they do, black shapes in the blacker night, Prompto whispers, "Little faster, huh?" and the bird puts on more speed, and the daemons fall away like nightmares in the dawn.

They pass a ramshackle outpost; they pass hot springs that glisten and steam in the moonlight. They pass rocks taller than a man.

They draw closer and closer, until Mt. Ravatogh blots out half the sky.

It's nearly dawn when Cinnamon draws up short with a distressed _kweh_ , wings spread and flapping.

"End of the line, huh?" Prompto reaches up to scratch her neck one last time. "You did good. Go on and take five. I'll be back later."

The chocobo rewards his concern by taking a mouthful of hair and munching on it, curiously, as though it might contain greens. Prompto laughs, and bats her away—hands her one final mouthful of curiel greens for the road and pets her, welling up with bittersweet affection. Then she trots off to do whatever birds do when they're riderless, and Prompto turns to the mountain.

It's not easy going.

By sun-up, Prompto's sweating and panting. The volcano's heat rises up from the ground, half baking him. But he was right about the creatures that live here. He takes aim and takes cover – squeezes off careful shots from a distance. For the most part, they don't even see him coming.

He climbs up and up, past the lava flow that they followed to get Vyv's picture. Where they branched right before, though, Prompto turns left, down a path he's never walked.

It's still early, but he's getting pretty tired.

He's on five hours of sleep from the night before last, and the trek isn't kind to his calves. But he knows, just knows, that as soon as his friends wake up at camp, Noct's going to put two and two together. He'll put on some kind of show, say Prompto must have wandered off for a photo op somewhere, and maybe they'd better do Ravatogh without him and come pick him up later.

Then he'll get them into the car and on their way – so Prompto's got to get in, get the weapon, and get out before they show. Otherwise, there goes the plan.

He clambers over jutting rock and unsteady sand, pushes himself on until he reaches what seems to be a dead end.

It can't be a dead end. He can see a trail up there, at the top of the cliff, leading higher still.

So Prompto takes a deep breath. His fingers search out a handhold – tug to test whether it will take his weight. Then he starts to climb.

By the time he hits the top, his arms are shaking and he's soaked with sweat. But the rocks here are flat and even, inset with runes that glow faintly in the dawn light. Prompto half-collapses on top of them, still trying to get his breath back. He tips his head back and mops at his brow – manages to drum up the energy to fish the water bottle from his pack and take a few sips. He chews on a piece of jerky, and he watches the land stretched out below him like a painting, tiny and perfect, as it fills with light as mild and yellow as butter.

Prompto gives himself five minutes. Then he staggers to his feet, ignoring the way his muscles complain from the exertion.

Getting close, he tells himself. Any minute now.

Of course, no sooner has he had the thought than the path ends – not in the hey-here's-the-royal-tomb kind of way, but more in the wow-the-mountain-definitely-kind-of-collapsed-here-at-some-point kind of way. All that's left is a straight drop onto a cluster of the largest eggs he's ever seen.

He stares for a beat, nonplussed. His first thought isn't about how he's going to keep climbing, or even about the size of the birdbeast that must have laid them, but that Iggy could make omelets for _days_ with those things.

But Iggy's not here, and he'd like to keep it that way. The sun's already up above the jagged outcropping of rocks, and everyone's surely en route by now. He's running out of time, if he wants to pull this off.

Prompto stares down at the eggs, each bigger than he is.

"Just don't break anything when you land," he coaches himself. "You'll be fine."

Then he jumps.

It's not the world's best landing; he slides down an outcropping of sand, then falls the rest of the way, barely getting his legs under him. If his boots had less ankle support, he probably would've twisted something good.

But he's standing, and he's where he needs to be. No points for style, but hey. You can't win them all.

Prompto doesn't waste any time; the last thing he needs is for mama birdbeast to make a reappearance. He skirts the edge of the nest and slips out into an adjoining open area. The holes in the walls set his teeth on edge; they put him in mind of bugs, sleek and hard-shelled, with too many legs.

But he doesn't see any bugs. Nothing big and fluffy and trying to save its babies from omelets, either, thank the Six. The only thing of interest is the wide cave mouth down at the other end of the enclosure.

That is, until he passes a gap in the rock, no wider than a person. On the other side, he catches a glimpse of sky.

"We're in business," Prompto mutters to himself, lips tugging up into a grin. Through the narrow gap, the crooked path leads over rocky ground.

Up and up he goes, over the rugged form of the mountain. When he finds what he's looking for, rising up out of the cliff face, Prompto draws up short, blinking.

There amid the hard, harsh lines of natural rock, the delicate manmade sculptures seem as though they belong to another world. Iggy probably could have told him which goddess was poised above the doorway, all luscious locks and flowing robes. Maybe Noct would've known, too.

But Prompto's just Prompto. All he knows is, she's pretty. She looks kind, so he's going to go out on a limb and guess not Leviathan.

He stands there at first, just staring, uncertain. He wouldn't mind a picture here, to take in workmanship that's lasted centuries, undisturbed. But the point is for no one to know he came, so he leaves his camera in his pack.

Instead, he sets his hand on the door for just an instant, giving in to the strange, sacred weight that always seems to inhabit these places.

Then he fishes the stolen key out of his pocket and lets himself inside.

The statue of the king lies on his pedestal, solemn and still. His face, fully bearded, is composed as though in sleep. His armor is precise and detailed, and there, folded in his hands, is a mace that looks like it'll come up to Prompto's shoulder.

"You have got to be kidding me," Prompto breathes, feeling his eyes go wide.

He'd been counting on a sword, or some knives, or maybe even a bow – not this monstrosity.

Still, it's too late to go back empty-handed. Prompto takes a deep breath and sets his hand on the mace. "Sorry," he tells the long-dead king, very quietly. "I wouldn’t, if it wasn't important. But this is for Noct."

It's easier than he would have expected, working the mace out from that stone grip. The sculptors must have carved a slot for it to go in and then inserted it, after.

Actually carrying the thing is another story.

His arms tremble just getting it up off the platform; when he sets it down on the floor, the loud ringing of metal on stone makes him flinch in the somber chamber.

"Sorry," Prompto says again. "I'm sorry. I swear I'll take good care of it."

And he's as gentle as he can be – but he has to admit, with more than a touch of chagrin, that there is something distinctly undignified about the mace of a dead king being walked twenty-five feet, barely two inches above the ground, before being set down so that Prompto can rest.

It could be worse, though.

He made it through, and he has the thing. It's probably past noon by now, but it took him all night to get here on a bird with the frenetic energy granted by curiel greens. He's probably got – what, two, three hours before everyone else gets here? He'll find another way down the mountain and pass them unseen while they're coming up the other side.

The rest is easy.

Prompto makes his careful way back down the winding rock path –  squeezes with the mace back into the open area. It looks like that wide cave mouth might lead back around to the way he came in, so Prompto circles toward it. His arms are already shaking from the constant lift-move-rest pattern he needs to even transport the mace; he knows by the time he gets to the base of the mountain, he'll be wrung out like a dishcloth.

He's so busy concentrating on what he's doing, one step in front of the other, that he misses the shifting shadows. He misses the gust of breeze, when it picks up. He misses every clue, right up until something sounds above him, high and shrill and blood-curling.

Prompto looks up just in time to see that the largest birdbeast he's ever imagined is bearing down on him, talons outstretched.

He yelps and flings himself sideways – feels something hard and unforgiving hook into the skin of his arm. It pulls him upward, but the weight of him – and the mace – pulls down. The flesh gives; Prompto collapses in the dust, arm gushing warmth.

There's no time to lick his wounds, though. He sees it, high above him, a mass of beak and feathers bigger than a city block. Every one of its wing feathers is longer than he is, and it's wheeling around again for another pass.

"Oh," Prompto breathes, and feels instinct kick in.

He grabs the mace and heaves, shoving it into one of the pocked holes along the side of the rock wall – goes to scramble in after it. But the birdbeast lands then, so heavy it shakes the ground, the force of the tremors knocking Prompto flat.

He's calling for his gun already, the flicker of magic a familiar tingle in his fingers. The birdbeast's right _there_ already, all beady eyes and razor-sharp beak, looking ready to snap him up like a chocobo with some particularly tasty greens.

It bends its head; Prompto lifts the gun.

He takes aim, and he pulls the trigger.

Blood explodes like a tidal wave, warm and sticky; the birdbeast's eye dissolves like a popped water balloon.

It's a great shot. Prompto just has time to be proud of it before the birdbeast, wild with pain, thrashes its head back and forth, catching him full across the chest. The impact knocks the air from him. He feels something crack – flies backward, hits the rock, and falls.

His vision's touch and go for a minute, fuzzy at the edges, tinged with grey. He's aware, distantly, that he needs to take cover. It's an urgent need, though he can't quite seem to remember why.

Something's screaming, shrill and high-pitched, as though from a great distance. Prompto cringes from the sound. He drags himself over rocks that are covered with something slippery and warm, into one of the holes that pock the formations here.  

He hauls himself over the lip of the opening – is puzzled, momentarily, to find it already occupied by a mace.

Right, he thinks, distantly. The king's weapon. The thought seems to come from under a few dozen layers of bubble wrap; it's thick and unsteady, hard to reach.

Something shrieks outside, and Prompto remembers that he's meant to be hiding. He wedges himself into the back, where he hopes whatever it is won't be able to follow – just has the presence of mind to drag the mace along with him.

"I've got you," he tells it, in what he hopes is a reassuring tone.

He can hear what sounds like the apocalypse out there, a series of grating cries so near he feels like his ears will shatter. Then, suddenly, the whole world shakes, and he's afraid everything _else_ will shatter. There's an awful, bone-deep scraping sound, and when he looks up, a tongue the size of his whole body is framed in a wide-open beak that's trying its damnedest to fish him out for lunch.

"Ha," says Prompto, distantly. Everything feels strange and a little swimmy; it hurts every time he takes in a breath. "I showed you."

Then he curls himself over the Mace of the Fierce, protectively, and passes out.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 9: In which not much seems to happen, but actually a lot happens.
> 
> Sorry this one's a bit of a short one, guys. The next one might be a while in coming, too; I need to figure out what I want to do with it. Thanks again SO much to all you amazing folks who took the time to leave kudos or comments. <3
> 
> UPDATE! A thousand and eighty-nine million thanks to the amazing rah-bop for [the beautiful art](http://rah-bop.tumblr.com/post/159503229576/gift-for-asidian-an-illustration-from-their-ffxv) they drew for this chapter! :D

Prompto's dreaming again.

He knows because he's back in the white place – the empty one that goes on for miles, with no sound but his own breathing and the beating of his heart.

Only this time, there's something hair-thin, hanging in the air in front of him. It looks almost like a spider's web, tiny strands that stretch out and away – and Prompto, fascinated, forgets for a minute the skin-crawling revulsion he feels for things with more than four legs. He reaches out a hand to touch, and discovers that it's not a spider's web at all.

It's a crack.

The shape of it shoots through the plain white of the air around him like a hairline fracture in a dinner plate. The edge is sharp, too – like ceramic, chipped the wrong way. When he takes his hand back, a smear of his own blood hangs in the air, there beside the line.

Somewhere in the distance, a dog is barking. It's louder than it has been for a long time, now.

Prompto says, "This is new."

The sense of being watched is oppressively strong – almost enough to smother. Prompto glances around for the source, knowing even as he does that he won't find it.

There's never anything here, besides himself.

But it's a day for changes, apparently. He doesn't see the watcher – but for the first time, he sees _something_. A mace lying at his feet, solid metal lines, looking firm and significant in the middle of so much nothing.

He blinks down at it, then bends to take the hilt in his hand. It comes with no effort at all, shockingly light. It feels like one of those foam bats they used to sell in toy stores in Insomnia, for kids too young to play baseball for real: mass, but no real heft.

The barking is louder, now. Invisible eyes make his skin prickle and his breath catch in his throat.

"Huh," says Prompto. He hefts the mace experimentally.

Then he swings it back like he's trying to hit a fastball – brings it forward, hard, right into the crack in the air.

The world breaks apart like that same cracked plate has been dropped onto a hard tile floor. Fragments fly everywhere, thrown with incredible force; he feels one cut into his cheek, a warm line of blood trickling down to his chin. In that instant, the sense of being watched is crushing. He can barely breathe, barely lift his head – but he does, instinctually, just in time to see the crack spreading, higher and higher, away into the distance.

And there, just before everything comes to pieces and falls away, is a face. It's a massive face, not quite human – all of metal, with stern, sculpted lips. Behind it swoop the stylized form of wings, the shape of them cobbled together with blades that gleam and glisten.

Then that, too, is gone.

The nothing fades away, as though it never existed. Gone is the endless field of white; gone is the silence; gone is the prickling dread of eyes on him.

In their place stand the metal halls of a Niflheim experimental facility, and Prompto's stomach twists in expectation. He knows this dream. He's dreamed this dream for years.

Well, maybe not _exactly_ this one.

Because there's Tiny – Pryna – standing in the middle of the hall, yapping at him. She wags her tail, an anxious, too-fast swish from side to side. Then she turns to run.

"Hey!" Prompto calls after her. "Where are you going?"

He glances behind him – sees nothing but metal stretching away into the distance. Then he takes off after the dog, boots loud on the hard surface, echoes jarring and strange.

Prompto's aware, distantly, that the mace is still in his hand. But in the way of dreams, he doesn't find himself surprised that he's having no trouble carrying it. Here and now, it's a given. Here and now, it's always been by his side.

He passes hall after hall, door after door. He passes an elevator with a facility map and a button labeled "to surface level." He passes a row of cells that look identical to the one he still has nightmares about – but this, he thinks, is not that place.

This is somewhere else.

Prompto isn't terribly surprised when they come to a halt at the end of the hall and he discovers that it's inset with a door all of gold. The rays of the rising sun radiate out like a beacon, and Prompto sets a hand to the surface, feeling the surprising warmth of it.

He pushes, and it falls open before him.

But there's no treasure here.

It's a records room, stacks of paper and age-old filing cabinets, mounds and mounds of manila folders. It looks like the kind of place that would give Iggy a heart attack; everything is haphazard, organization lost by the wayside about a half-century ago. Prompto's still staring, wondering what's so special about piles of paper, when Pryna barks again, sharp and urgent.

That's the only warning he gets before Ardyn takes him by the shoulder and spins him around.

The sight of his smile – insinuating and oily – shakes Prompto harder than Titan's tremors.

"It's been awhile, hasn't it?" says Ardyn.

It _has_ been awhile.

It's been long enough that the dread twisting his stomach almost floors him.

"Don't you touch me," says Prompto – but it's a hollow threat. He can never seem to keep Ardyn from doing what he wants, in these dreams. He can never do anything but scream when Ardyn straps him down.

Any second now, he'll be back in one of those cells, waiting for help that never comes.

Any second now.

But Ardyn is only watching him, eyes dark and thoughtful. "What do you mean to do with that?"

Prompto blinks. He looks down at his hands, distantly surprised to see that he's still holding the Mace of the Fierce. He tightens his grip, holds on so hard that his palms sting. It's a clean sensation, sharp and sudden. It clears his mind.

"I dunno," says Prompto. He lifts the mace up over his shoulder, grip two-handed. "How bout we find out?"

A voice intrudes, then.

It's a regal bass, effortlessly commanding – not a voice Prompto knows. It puts him in mind of a statue on a tomb, somber face and flowing beard.

"This will not avail you," it says.

Prompto eyes the mace he holds, dubious.

The voice says, "Striking him here will not serve you, beloved of the king."

Still Prompto hesitates. The weapon thrums in his hands like a livewire. It feels good – electric, like the air before a summer storm. It swells in his lungs; he can taste it on his tongue.

"Why not?" says Prompto.

"Only at the throne will Providence change the course of man, and only at the cost of a life," says the voice. "So it is written, and so it must be."

Prompto knows those words from somewhere – or something like them, at least. They linger in the back of his mind, like a smell from childhood that draws up a memory too distant to place.

He's heard them before. He swears.

He's still combing through memories, still trying to place the recollection, when Ardyn glides in nearer, like a shark in bloody water.

"Idle threats?" he says, tone flippant and unconcerned. "You really ought to know better by now."

Prompto's heart is slamming in his chest. His throat suddenly seems too narrow to get enough air. Sweet Six, he hopes it isn't an idle threat. "What if I hit him anyway?"

The dead king, the one who wielded the mace in Prompto's hands once upon a time, only laughs. It's deep and booming - the laugh of a man who doesn't shy from impulse. "Who am I to say what you may or may not do for your own sake?"

"Thanks," says Prompto, shakily – and he grins, fierce and sudden. "That’s what I was hoping you'd say."

When the mace connects, Ardyn's skin cracks as though it's porcelain, all brittle surface and no elasticity. It comes away in chunks, like a broken doll – and behind the shape of humanity, black blood pools in gelled clots, thick as oil.

Ardyn falls back, staring at him with eyes that are an unearthly red, the color of banked embers. They leak black fluid down his shattered face, like polluted tears. "You forget yourself," Ardyn hisses, tone nothing at all like his usual false joviality.

Then he lunges, quick as a snake, and reaches for the mace. His fingers clench tight; he snatches it from Prompto like a spoiled child stealing a sibling's toy. When he throws it, effortless, into the dented metal side of a filing cabinet, the whole thing goes down with a crash, and Prompto flinches at the sound.

"I'll help you remember." Ardyn reaches toward Prompto's face. The too-warm palm pats him, condescending, on the cheek.

No sooner has Ardyn's hand brushed against him than pain springs to life. It flares along his back, dull and settled like a bruise. It crushes in against his ribs. It screams along his left arm, razor sharp and raw.

It swims in his head, a throbbing chorus that won't quiet.

"Don't," Prompto croaks.

Ardyn only smiles. He tips forward, a mocking half-bow. "As you wish, beloved of the king."

Prompto wakes with a groan, and as soon as he opens his eyes, the pain floods in threefold. He closes them again – whimpers – has just enough presence of mind to roll over when he pukes, so it doesn't go down the front of his vest.

He counts to twenty, breathing slow and careful – makes sure his stomach's planning to stay more or less in one place before he dares to open his eyes again.

When he does, he discovers that it's dark. The moonlight is a distant, silver glow out beyond the rocky opening of his cover. There's no sign of the birdbeast –  no sign of anything but rock, and rock, and more rock.

Gradually, he becomes aware of the fact that the leg of his jeans has been shredded from the knee down. The fabric's been used to bind the wound on his upper arm, and even though it looks like his sloppy bandage work, he can't remember waking up to fumble his way through the process.

Which is, all things considered, probably not a good sign.

On top of that, he's dizzy and nauseated – and neither of those are good, either. Taken together, they mean concussion, and that's at the very bottom of the list of things Prompto needs.

Still. He can do this. He's done it before.

He knows how to handle a concussion. He knows he shouldn't sleep – can still hear Iggy's voice in his head, seven years back, instructing him what he can and can't do with a head injury.

So he'll just stay up. Easy, right? All he needs is a distraction – and Prompto's good at distractions.

He hums to himself, trying to keep his mind from wandering. Then he sings – stumbles through two fast food jungles, and half of six different pop songs. He makes things up, about mountains that are way too full of rock, and birdbeasts that really ought to learn to give a guy a break.

He's a verse into an impromptu ballad about the king of Lucis and a fish the size of a behemoth when he starts losing the plot. His eyelids feel like they've got concrete glued on top of them, so he lets them slip closed, just for a little while. It wouldn't hurt to doze, he tells himself. Surely not even Ignis could object to that.

Prompto's halfway to dreamland when a cheery jingle intrudes, and it takes him a minute to realize that he's not singing it himself. It's the King's Knight battle theme, bright and adventurous, a tinny fanfare from his pocket.

His ringtone.

Prompto fumbles his phone out with clumsy fingers – swipes it open and registers, dimly, that the screen is cracked and he has twenty-one missed calls.

"H'lo?" he slurs.

The voice is Noct's, sharp as one of the swords in his arsenal. "Where the hell are you?"

"Hey, buddy," says Prompto. "Missed you, too."

The words aren't quite clear; his tongue feels too thick, and he's having trouble forming them.

"Prompto," says Noct, voice tight with tension. "Seriously. Where _are_ you?"

"Don't worry," says Prompto. "S'okay. I got… got the mace. And your great-grandpa's got a nice voice." He pauses to consider. "Great-great-great grandpa. Throw some more greats in there."

There's a muffled sound, and hushed, urgent words too soft for Prompto to hear. The phone crackles and echoes, like it's been put on speaker.

Then Ignis speaks, crisp and unflappable. "Prompto. Location, please."

He's used to obeying that voice. It's wrapped up in five years of darkness, the advisor's careful planning all that kept them both from biting it big time. Prompto says, "I'm on the mountain," before his brain can insist that Iggy maybe shouldn't have that information.

There's a plan, isn't there? He's pretty sure there's a plan, even if he can't quite remember what it is.

"Like hell you are," Gladio tells him.

And Noct cuts in: "We were all over that place, Prom. There's no way we missed you."

Prompto stares out at the moonlight. It's kind of pretty, in a washed-out, time-bleached kind of way. It looks like one of his filters.

He coughs, a rattling sound in his chest – spits, and tastes copper.

"Prompto?" It's Iggy again.

Prompto blinks. Everything feels slow and sticky, like honey in the fridge. He says, "I'll meet you guys at the base. Kay? At the foot. Those big rocks."

The world's spinning, distant and graceful. It reminds him of a music box he saw once, when he was just a kid out shopping with his mom. There was a ballerina, all pointed-toe elegance, making careful circles in a box. Prompto's head feels like that now.

"No!" There's a jagged edge to the word. "No. We'll come get you. Just – just tell us where you are."

Noct's voice is rough, like it gets when he's upset. Prompto wonders if something happened.

He hopes Noct's okay.

"A hole," says Prompto, helpfully. He coughs again – longer, this time. When he spits, the blood looks black in the moonlight. "I don't think that bird liked me very much," he admits, ruefully.

There's talking on the other end of the phone. It sounds decisive, and then inquiring, and then a little frantic.

Noct's calling his name, he thinks, but it seems very far away.

Prompto blinks out at the moonlight. With each blink, his eyes stay closed longer. It gets harder and harder to open them – until, eventually, he gives up and lets them stay shut.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was hard for a lot of different reasons. It's pretty short, and I'm not completely happy with it, but I think I've finally hammered it into what it needs to be.
> 
> Thank you again SO much to the folks who have taken the time to leave kudos and comments. You absolutely make my day. You guys are the best. <3

Prompto opens his eyes to the hazy blue of the afternoon sky, and Noct's hair a dark shape against it, like a halo surrounding the pale of his face. It's a beautiful sight. Prompto would appreciate it a lot more if he didn't feel like he's been trampled by a behemoth with a vendetta against humanity.

"Noct?" he says, but it comes out as barely a croak.

"Sweet Six," Noct breathes. "What did you do, you idiot, throw yourself down the mountain?" The words are hard, but Noct's expression is soft, distress layered there beneath the surface.

"Tell him off later," says Gladio's voice from somewhere out of view, tone terse and gruff. "Right now, you better move."

Noct casts a glance sideways – nods, and ducks out of view. Then a scarred face replaces him, and big hands slip beneath Prompto's shoulders and knees.

Gladio lifts; Prompto screams.

Ignis' voice is a hazy sound in the background, buzzing in and out: "Down, Gladio, put him _down_."

The pain subsides, and Prompto makes a sound that's supposed to be a "Thanks," but comes out more like a whimper.

From somewhere that seems very far away, the sound of breaking glass fills his ears, a sharp crack and then the tinkle of shards clinking together. Something wet patters against Prompto's skin, and healing magic surges through him, bright and sharp as the scent of pine.

The pain in his ribs eases, waves of relief that lap against him. The throbbing in his head subsides to something bearable. He still feels like roadkill under the Regalia's wheels, but now he's like fresh roadkill and not the kind that's been sitting there for a week and a half under the hot desert sun. Small favors.

"Thanks," Prompto tries again, and gets the actual word this time.

Gladio's hands return, slipping gingerly beneath him. This time, when they lift, Prompto manages to mostly bite back a groan.

"All we've got left are potions," says Noct's voice. Prompto can't see him from this angle; his whole range of sight comprises a spread of blue sky, and the bare curve of Gladio's tattooed shoulder, and the dark, messy fringe of Gladio's hair. But Noct keeps going, low and apologetic: "We're out of elixirs. Sorry."

"Highness." That's Ignis, somber and even. Something is off about the tone, but Prompto can't quite put his finger on what. It's hard to focus – hard to even keep his eyes open.

Gladio's saying something now, a rumble Prompto feels all along his side. He realizes belatedly that he's still being carried , held up in strong arms like a child. It's humiliating, and somehow oddly touching.

"Prompto," Noct says. "You still with us?"

It's a question, so he ought to answer it. But thinking is so hard right now, and his eyes don't want to stay open. A hand touches his forehead, achingly gentle, pushing back his hair. Prompto turns into the touch, instinctively.

He thinks that Noct's still talking – asking a question, maybe, low and urgent. But his hold on the waking world is slipping away already, fading by the second, and Prompto slides headlong back into the dark hold of sleep.

 

* * *

 

The next time Prompto wakes, it's to the sight of fabric filtered pale grey-green from the sunlight shining through it. Dappled shadows make dark splotches against the cloth in the shapes of leaves and branches; outside, a bird trills, sweet and unassuming. There's the smell of cooking meat somewhere nearby, and the scent of it, savory and inviting, makes his stomach twist in anticipation.

He has time to take all of that in, largely because his body doesn't put up any protest before he gets through noticing the small details. It's a novel feeling.

Prompto's head seems all in one piece – completely free of pain, his thoughts remarkably clear. His ribs no longer ache with every breath he takes in, and his awful bandage job isn't keeping his blood from spilling all over the ground anymore.

In fact, there's no blood. There's no bandage, either; it's just smooth skin, not even a scar.

Groggy, not entirely sure how he got here, Prompto puts his arms out behind him and levers himself up to sitting. His sleeping bag, only half-zipped, falls away.

Someone must hear the soft sound of the fabric when it shifts, because outside there's a murmur of voices, and then Noct's head appears against a slice of sky, framed by the tent flap. His eyes flare wider, just a touch; then they narrow, and his lips press into a thin line. "I'm not done calling you an idiot yet," he says, tone flat and unreadable.

"Good times," Prompto manages. "Just what I never get tired of hearing."

"We looked for you for a day and a half." The lines that bracket Noct's mouth look out of place on this younger version of his face; they would be more appropriate on the bearded one, where everything is worn and tired and broken down.

Prompto swallows, throat suddenly thick. Being responsible for that expression feels about as good as he imagines shooting a kitten would.

"Do you have any idea," Noct says, and then he stops. He opens his mouth, as though to continue – subsides, unable to force out what he wants to say.

Prompto can read between the lines, though. He can see what's written there in Noct's face, bold block print like the cover of a magazine.

"Sorry," Prompto says, and manages a self-deprecating huff of a laugh. "Kind of messed that one up, didn't I?" His gaze slides sideways, so that he doesn't have to see that look on Noct's face anymore. Instead, he examines the edge of the tent fabric. There's a tiny tear down by the corner, at odds with the neat row of stitching that makes up the rest of it. 

Prompto wants to claim that he could've pulled it off – that he'd have rallied and dragged the mace back down the mountain, no problem. He wants to tell Noct that he didn't mess this up as much as it seems like he did. But he was in rough shape; he remembers that much, however out of it he was at the time. Chances are, if Noct hadn't come looking, he'd have curled up with the Mace of the Fierce and quietly checked out.

Ten years going solo, Prompto thinks bitterly at himself, and you drop the ball when it really matters. Way to go, dumbass.

He clears his throat, picking absently at the leather band on his wrist. He says, "So, uh, the mace...?"

"I put it in the Armiger," Noct says.

It takes a beat to process that. It's so far from what Prompto expects to hear that his eyes jerk up again, flickering back and forth over the lines of Noct's face.

"You – wait, what?" 

That doesn't even make sense. The whole point of the trip was to keep Iggy and Gladio from finding out about the final weapon. If it's in with the rest of them, every time Noct calls up the ghostly arsenal of his ancestors, the mace'll be floating right alongside them, in plain view. Prompto opens his mouth say exactly this – and then he closes it again.

Suddenly he remembers waking in the stone divot on the mountain – remembers Iggy's voice issuing commands, and Gladio's arms lifting him up.

Prompto closes his eyes, just for a moment. "Gods dammit."

Noct says, "I told them everything."

Prompto needs a couple of seconds to absorb that. Everything is – it's a lot. A lot to explain, and a lot more for Iggy and Gladio to take on faith. There are things he doesn't want them to hear about, things he wants to keep to himself, and for an instant, some private part of Prompto squirms away from the idea that they'll know exactly how badly he fell apart during the ten years without a sun.

Then Prompto tamps that down, hard. Don't you dare, he thinks. This isn't about you.

He picks a little harder at his wrist band. He says, "So, Umbra and the rest."

It's not Noct's voice that answers, though. It's Iggy's, drifting in from the world outside the cloth walls of the tent. "Indeed," he says, sounding calm and collected and perfectly normal, like acknowledging time travel and a terrible future is as common as discussing the weather. "Although, if there were any secrets remaining, I would certainly have pried them out of you now."

Gladio's voice joins them next, a low rumble with a hint of amusement. "Anyone ever tell you two that you suck at the whole covert ops thing? Seriously, work on the volume control."

Noct lifts one shoulder and lets it fall, a half-hearted shrug. He gives Prompto a look that seems to say, "See? There you go." 

It's a strange look, here and now. It's his smooth, casually unconcerned, don't-let-anything-peek-through face. Prompto prefers it to the look from before, banked emotions stacked so thick they're hard to decipher. Even thinking of that expression puts a cold, slithering tendril of guilt straight into Prompto's guts.

Noct's been number one on his list of people never to disappoint for going on fifteen years now. He can't quite believe he messed it up so badly.

"So we're caught," he says.

"Caught-ish," Noct agrees.

"When you're ready to stop pretending we're not here," Ignis calls, "breakfast is nearly ready."

Noct's trying hard not to lose the poker face. It's crumbling at the edges though, and he reaches out to set a hand on Prompto's shoulder. "Think you can eat?"

Prompto consults with his stomach – gets back a resounding yes. "Sounds worth getting up for," he says. He tries on a grin, but it feels shaky around the edges. It wins him a cautious smile from Noct in return, though, and that makes it worth the effort.

 

* * *

 

 

For breakfast, there's of strips of garula bacon, toast, and strong, sweet coffee. Prompto has seconds, and Gladio doesn't even tease him for it. 

They talk about normal things – what supplies they need to pick up the next time they swing through Lestallum, and whether Iggy ought to make trout for dinner, and if the ominous clouds on the horizon actually herald a storm, or if they're likely to blow through. It's not until the dishes are clean and packed away that Noct turns serious. He fishes out the map of Lucis, and this time, instead of secreting it away in the dead of night to plan their route, he spreads it out on the stone of the haven.

He says, "We've really only got two regions left uncovered. Cape Caem and the Vesperpool. Where first?"

Ignis considers the map thoughtfully. "The Vesperpool will save us gas mileage. It's closer at the moment."

Gladio puts in, "We could probably do with a resupply, too. That's on the way."

There's a beat of silence. Prompto thinks it's filled with Noct making up his mind, until he glances up and sees everyone looking at him. "Prompto?" says Noct.

Something in him stalls out in an interesting and not entirely unpleasant kind of way.

He was half expecting – all expecting, his mind corrects, be honest here – that after the fiasco with the mace, he'd be right out of the planning business. He deserves it, he's sure. In retrospect, he can pick out every single mistake he made, in excruciating detail. Besides, Iggy's better at this kind of thing. He always has been, and he always will be. It's kind of his job.

But here's Noct, eyes fixed on him, intent and watchful. Here's Noct, waiting for what he has to say.

Prompto starts to say, "The Vesperpool's fine."

He opens his mouth, anyway. That's as far as the words get before they stick in his throat. Suddenly, all he can see is miles of metal corridor from a dream. Suddenly, all he can smell is old blood, laid over the sterile, astringent stink of a lab. Suddenly, all he can hear is the barking of a small white dog, who's been trying to get him to follow her for weeks now.

"Prompto?" Noct says again. There's a trace of worry, buried behind his name.

Prompto blinks, and he's back at the haven, the stone hard and unforgiving beneath his knees. The map's spread out before him, all of Lucis there to see.

And the Vesperpool is fine. Really, it is. They'll probably have to go check it out later, anyway.

But he finds that what he says is, "You ever think that maybe we've been looking in the wrong places?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing the conversation when Prompto wakes up was like pulling teeth, really. I wanted them to fail at communicating because Noct is terrible at saying the important things, and Prompto is bad at -himself-, and when you combine them, there's bound to be misunderstandings. I'm not sure it quite came out how I wanted it, but. Fingers crossed. ^^


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again so much for all of the incredible feedback. I love every person who took the time to comment or leave kudos. <3
> 
> Sorry for the wait for this chapter. I got a liiiittle distracted with some one-shots and one slightly longer pieces for the kink meme (they're on Ao3 now; feel free to check them out if you're interested). Anyway, thanks for being patient with me. Hope you enjoy the new part! :)

They break camp at 10 pm – leave behind the faint blue light of the haven for the dark shrub-pocked plains and the sweeping vista of the star-filled sky.

They travel by foot, four indistinct shapes passing silently in the night, and before half an hour is up, Tollhends Stronghold looms above them, all harsh grey walls and improvised fence to deter the wildlife. Seeing it there, lit up from the inside, bright fluorescents making splashes on the concrete, Prompto knows a sudden sense of foreboding.

He's not afraid of traveling at night anymore; standing out here, under cover of darkness, his nerves are steady as steel. But just looking at those walls, his palms sweat and his throat grows dry.

"Remember," Ignis is saying, voice low and intent. "Stealth is our objective. If we can sneak in and out without fighting an entire garrison, so much the better."

"Got it," says Gladio.

"Right," says Prompto.

Ignis pins Noct with an inscrutable stare. His face is barely visible, here in the dim light out beyond the fortress, but Prompto imagines there's something long-suffering in the crease of his brow. "Highness," he says. "That goes for all of us, mind you."

He's remembering the last Imperial base they attempted to infiltrate, Prompto has no doubt – remembering Noct charging off, directionless, taking down anything he could lay his sword on.

Noct says, "Yeah, yeah. Go easy on the Niffs. Got it."

Prompto feels a smile pull at the corners of his lips. For a moment, the immediacy of it all – the easy camaraderie, the conspiratory words in the night, the swelling sense of possibility – laps against him and swallows up the fear.  "Twenty gil says he doesn't last ten minutes," says Prompto.

"Five," say Gladio. "Tops."

"You're on."

Ignis lets out a breath that sounds more like a sigh. "Astrals preserve us."

"Hello?" says Noct. "I'm standing right here." He's trying for annoyed, but when he turns to look back at them, Prompto catches a glimpse of his face, highlighted by the lights from the base – the hint of a smile.

"Yeah," says Prompto. "About that, buddy. We gonna get moving, or what?"

Noct snorts. But he does get moving, not for the front gate but toward the fence at the side.

It's chain-link, barely six feet tall. They're over the top so fast, the Imperials may as well have rolled out a welcome mat and put out some appetizers on a tray.

Once they get inside, though, things get tougher. It's not that they get caught – to everyone's surprise, their presence is still a secret some thirty minutes in, and both Gladio and Prompto lose the bet. It's just that they don't know where they need to _be_.

"We're looking for some kind of basement level," Prompto told them, three days ago, with the map still spread out in front of them. "Keep an eye out for an elevator."

And they assumed, all three of them, that this was someplace he'd been in the long dark years of the future. Prompto hasn't corrected them, and he doesn't plan to. He figures senses of disbelief only stretch so far, and he doesn't want to start laying out his dreams.

But gods, does he wish they had more to go on.

Prompto's got scraps. If he closes his eyes, he can almost remember the interior map, pinned up on the wall. But it's just hard rectangles and narrow passageways. He thinks the YOU ARE HERE marker was toward the center, but he can't say for sure where that is. He can't say for sure it's this base. Hell, he can't even swear that it's in Lucis and not Niflheim.

So they search. They dispatch MTs, quick and quiet, and stash the armor – the bodies – where they won't be seen. They make it through the west side of the outdoor facility, stop to yank some wiring out of machinery that's going to make their lives a lot harder, if they get caught.

They sweep through a small office, with a viewing window and a control panel, and they're on their way out when every hair on the back of Prompto's neck pricks up, like there's an electric storm incoming. He turns around, feeling like everything's in slow motion. His gaze drops to the floor, almost as though something's guiding it.

And there it is. Not an elevator, but the thin lines of a trapdoor, barely visible against the smooth polish of the tile.

"Guys," Prompto says, voice very small. "Think we found it."

"Yeah?" Noct circles back around – crouches down beside it, to feel along the lines. He gets a nail in at the edge and pries upward. Beneath them, a ladder descends into darkness.

Prompto feels like something very large is breathing down his neck. He feels frankly a little dizzy, like he hasn't eaten in a couple of days. His palms are sweating again.

"Yeah," he says, faintly.

Noct stands there, staring down it. At last he shrugs. "Well," he says, and pins Prompto with a lingering glance. "Guess there's one way to find out."

They descend into the depths, down and down, longer even than the hole that took them – will take them – into the Crestholm Channels. By the time they reach the bottom, Prompto's jittery with the nearness of the walls. It doesn't help when he steps into the space at the bottom and finds that it's a room no bigger than a closet.

Ignis joins them, and then Gladio; the space gets tighter. And there it is, up against the far wall: an elevator, all hard lines and brushed steel.

"It would seem to require a key card," Ignis says, tone thoughtful.

"Or something," Gladio puts in. He frowns, edging around Noct to get a better look. "Where the hell are you supposed to put the card in?"

It doesn't need a keycard. Prompto knows damn well it needs the little pattern of lines in ink on his wrist.

And oh, sweet Six, he doesn't want to have to have this conversation again. He shares a look with Noct, feels his stomach shift and squirm. He can read it there in Noct's eyes: whatever "everything" included when he sat Iggy and Gladio down for a primer on the future, it didn't include this.

There's a beat of silence. Then Noct says, "Hey, Prom. You're pretty good with tech stuff, right? Think you can hack it?"

And he crowds right up behind Prompto, blocking the panel from view to the two behind him.

Prompto shoots him a look packed with a hundred different ways to say thank you. "Guess it doesn't hurt to give it a shot. I mean, otherwise we've got to climb back up again and find another way, right?"

It's easy enough, to pretend he knows what he's doing here. He ducks his head and pokes at the buttons on the panel. He makes a show of borrowing one of Iggy's daggers to pop the cover on the wiring free. Then, a couple minutes in and safely out of sight, he slips his wristband down and scans the barcode. The panel beeps; the elevator doors slide open.

Prompto edges his wristband back up, hands the dagger over to Iggy, and puts on a shaky grin. "Presto chango, the way is open."

Gladio grunts – glances Prompto over. "Nice going. Remind me not to let you know if I'm hiding something behind locked doors."

Noct slips into the elevator and they follow behind him. Prompto settles against the far wall, leaning his weight and tapping one toe against the floor. "I'm kinda easy to thwart," he says. "Just go low-tech and you'll be fine."

Noct slides a glance their way, half amused. "Careful, Prom. You're gonna end up with a reputation."

There's only one button on the elevator, and Noct's finger jams it in. The doors slide closed, and they begin their rumbling descent.

"Prompto Argentum," Ignis muses, "Master thief. It does have a certain ring to it."

Prompto scratches at his nose, a bit embarrassed by the attention. "Some master thief I am. I didn't even think to come up with an alias."

The elevator dings, and whatever else the conversation might have entailed is cut off when the doors open.

Noct's face goes still and serious; he gestures with a hand behind him for them to follow. Then they move into the hallway.

For a good ten seconds, Prompto can't hear over the rushing in his ears. It's like a slice from his memory, picture-perfect. Metal walls, smooth and sleek and sterile. Stale air that doesn't seem to fill his lungs. Even the sign by the elevator doors is there: to surface level.

He expects to hear a dog barking any second now. He expects Ardyn to come up behind him and set a hand on his shoulder.

Prompto opens his mouth and tries to talk. He croaks a little, instead – has to lick at his lips and wet them to try again. "I, uh. I remember where we are now," he says. 

"So you've hacked them twice," Ignis says, considering. He pauses to think that through. "Master thief, indeed."

Prompto doesn't correct him. He's too busy trying to convince his legs not to dump him in a heap on the floor.

"Right at the intersection ahead," he manages. His hand is shaking when he calls the gun into it, and he doesn't miss the look that Ignis and Gladio share.

Noct gives him a long once-over – nods decisively and turns for the hall. "In and out, guys," he says. "I don't want to be here any longer than we have to."

"What sort of trouble are we expecting, anyway?" says Gladio, as he falls in behind Noct.

"If we're really lucky, none," says Prompto. "Cakewalk, from start to finish. They'll roll out the red carpet. Break out the champagne. It'll be a party."

He realizes distantly that he's babbling – doing what he used to do, once upon a time, when he was scared and there were people around to listen. He's filling the silence with noise, to make it less threatening.

It's been years since he's even had it as an option. Since Iggy took up in Lestallum, at least.

Gladio says, "And if we're not lucky?"

They take the right turn – come out into a hallway that's smooth and straight and dizzyingly familiar.

Prompto's quiet for a beat, trying to work up the guts to say it. "Remember that guy who brought us to Titan?"

Noct stops so suddenly that Gladio almost crashes into him. He wheels around, eyes flashing – looks set to shove Iggy aside, but the advisor steps back in time, smooth and graceful.

"Are you kidding me?" Noct demands.

"Maybe?" Prompto says. "I mean, he probably won't be here." There's a beat of silence. "Probably."

"Probably," Noct repeats, inflection utterly flat. "Of course."

His face gives nothing away, except for his jaw, so tight that a muscle jumps. "We're going to talk after this," Noct says, eventually.

"Yeah," says Prompto. "Sure." He lifts the hand without the gun, palm out, in a disarming kind of hey-can-we-not-have-this-conversation-in-the-middle-of-a-Nif-base-please-and-thank-you gesture.

Noct gives him another long looking over, then turns abruptly back to lead them the other way.

"Gladio," he bites out, as he starts to walk again. "Bring up the rear. Stay together, all of you."

There are words under the words. The line of Noct's shoulders is hard and unbending as steel.

Prompto catches a glimpse of Gladio's face, and Ignis'. Their expressions are perfect mirrors: they start at surprise, then morph to something closer to grim understanding.

But when Gladio falls in behind him, Prompto can't decide if he feels guilty for setting everyone on edge or just grateful that he's flanked by two of the best fighters Lucis has ever seen. 

They walk in silence, the only sounds footsteps on metal. Prompto's sure his heart's loud enough for Noct to hear, way up in front; he feels like it's going about a thousand beats a minute too fast. 

Every once in a while, Prompto calls out a direction: left, or right, or keep going. Noct follows along without acknowledgement.

Two turns in, they run into an MT coming out of a side room. Before anyone can blink, Noct's warped halfway down the hall and buried his sword in the chest plate of the armor. It's down and sparking before any of them can so much as react, and Ignis helps him drag the body back into the chamber it exited.

After that, there's nothing. It's eerily still, as though this place, far below the ground, has been forgotten. Maybe it has been, Prompto thinks. Maybe this is where they put things they don't want the world to find anymore.

It's a strange thought – but then, this is a strange place.

Everything about it has him on edge, from the echoing sound of their footsteps, to the gleam of light on the walls, to the taste in his mouth, bitter with fear. When the smooth metal halls give way to the hard, stark bars of prison cells – not just the memory of a nightmare, but a nightmare he lived – Prompto tells himself, firmly, that he's going to be fine.

No one's going to strap him down, helpless, to a platform of brushed steel. He's not going to spend days here, without food or water, wondering if anyone will come. 

He's fine. This is fine. 

Everything's fine.

"Prompto," says Noct, a bit too loudly, and given the fact that Ignis and Gladio are looking at him, he thinks it's probably not the first time.

"Sorry," says Prompto. "Spaced out a little." He ducks his head to avoid Noct's eyes – glances around, surreptitiously, to reorient himself. 

And with a start, he realizes they're close. He knows this hall. 

"Almost there now," Prompto says – but Noct doesn't start going again, not right away. He fixes Prompto with a long, penetrating sort of stare.

"Come on," says Prompto, voice slightly uneven. "Let's just get this done and get out of here. Okay?"

"Okay," says Noct, at last. With a nod, he turns to keep going.

And they really are almost there. Prompto can see it in his mind's eye: a small white dog, running alongside him, tail wagging. Pryna sitting down in front of the door, gilded golden with the rising sun.

The door here isn't stylized with the kind of art that covered the carvings in Costlemark Tower, though. It's plain and scuffed, set with a small label etched into the steel. "Records," it says.

"There," says Prompto, mouth dry. "That's it."

And when Noct opens the door, it really, really is.

Inside is a records room, stacks of paper and age-old filing cabinets, mounds and mounds of manila folders. Everything is haphazard, organization lost by the wayside about a half-century ago. 

He can pinpoint exactly the spot he was standing, and exactly the spot Ardyn was standing, and the filing cabinet the mace struck, when Ardyn flung it aside. A sense of _déjà vu_ floods over him, thick and heavy. His spine tingles, waiting for the rest of the dream to play out. He digs his fingernails into the palm of his hand, hard, and wills himself to breathe. It's stunningly difficult.

Ignis is speaking, somewhere in the background, a buzz of sound low in his ears. "This seems quite a lot to sort through. What precisely are we looking for?"

And Noct answers, stiff and reluctant. "Anything that seems like it could help." He hesitates – forces out, unwillingly: "Stuff about the prophecy, I guess."

And Prompto doesn't mean to speak. He doesn't. But he finds that he's saying: "It'll be old. Really old." He's not sure how he knows, but he _knows_ , deep in his bones. It's thrumming there like a storm about to break, hidden just below the surface. He keeps thinking of the door from his dreams, set with the rays of the sun. "Like, Costlemark old."

Ignis hums thoughtfully. Gladio says, "Guess we better get to work."

And Noct fixes him with a long look that promises questions, whenever they get around to that little talk of theirs.

Ignis is the one to find it, perhaps half an hour later. "Well, hello," he says, tone mild, arm half-buried in a filing cabinet. "What do we have here?"

What they have here is a stack of crumbled pages, worn with time, barely held together with more than dust and a prayer, sandwiched into a clear plastic folder. What they have here is the Nif transcript of what they contain, paperclipped to the front. Ignis tucks it delicately into the pack with all of the other promising bits of information they've unearthed, but as soon as Prompto sets eyes on it, he knows.

That's it. That's the one. They might as well stop looking.

A handful of minutes later, they really don't have a choice. The world explodes into sound and color: the wail of a siren, and the flashing red of an alarm.

"Crap," says Gladio. "Knew we should've stuffed the one from the control room in the locker."

But it's too late to worry about hiding places for their fallen enemies. Noct's already straightening – folding the papers he has in his hands to cram them into the pockets of his waders. "Time to move," says Noct.

There's no stealth on the way out, no caution.

They favor speed over precision, strength over avoidance. Prompto's half afraid they're going to get boxed into the elevator – that the doors will ding open to a row of MTs with guns, ready to mow them down, and that'll be it, game over. But the Imperials must not realize yet where the intruders actually _are_ , because even though they come up to ground level to find an empty office, the courtyard out beyond the window is swarming with soldiers.

For a beat, everyone's silent, considering the odds. Then Noct says, "Ready?" and just dives right in.

He shatters through the window – it catches the edge of him, just before he blinks out into nothing – then reappears right in the middle of what looks like a whole regiment. Noct doesn't give them time to react.

He takes out three before he's hit the ground, and then he's gone again, in and out among rows of soldiers, leaving ethereal blue warp images behind. He switches weapons, short swords and curved knives, quick things – but there, just for an instant, Prompto thinks he sees the Mace of the Fierce, and he's glad of it.

It seems right, somehow, that it takes part in this particular fray.

Then Prompto doesn't have time to reflect anymore because he's moving, booted feet loud as he bursts into the courtyard to play backup for his best friend.

He splits from Gladio and Ignis – is aware, vaguely, that they're holding their own, falling into an easy rhythm, a casual give and take. They've always worked well together, Iggy's deadly grace beside Gladio's sheer power. It does him good to see them together again, a whirl of neverending motion, lethal and awe-inspiring.

As for Prompto himself, there's something about this place that sets him alight. There's a current running under his skin; it feels like holding the mace did, in his dream. His fingers itch; his sights line up perfectly for every shot. He pulls the trigger, and the MTs fall, and fall, and fall. When they get too close, he swaps out for a saw that spins faster than the eye can follow – presses it up against the leg of a mechanical monstrosity and revels in the shower of sparks and the heavy clang when it falls.

He can take this kind of fight. He's _missed_ this kind of fight, simple and clean, with no bubbling puddles of darkness or glowing daemon eyes – with friends at his back and his guns in his hands. After the claustrophobic tunnels leading down to the records room, he feels like he's got enough space to fly.

He's just lined up a shot and picked off the MT coming in behind Noct when the quality of the air changes. It's night, but suddenly there's a glow, purple-red, like a flower about to bloom.

"Oh hell yeah," Prompto calls – and Noct glances up at him, just briefly, and flashes a smile.

Then his eyes fade out, from midnight blue to the eerie shade of magic, and the air grows bitterly cold. All along the ground, frost grows like strange, exotic vines; Prompto's breath fogs every time he exhales. Between one heartbeat and the next, he starts to shake – hugs himself, trying to keep some of the heat in his bare arms.

Then Shiva's there, glimmering beauty in blue and white. The air is filled with sprites that look exactly like her, elegant and deadly to the touch. Machinery splinters and splits apart, trapped in crystals of ice. Prompto can hear his teeth chattering; he can barely feel his legs.

Then, all at once, she's gone. The night is still and empty; the ground is dusted with a fine layer of snow and the fallen bodies of their foes, frozen solid. Noct goes to his knees, gasping, and Prompto beelines to his side – isn't entirely surprised to find that his lips are blue.

"You okay?" Prompto asks him, offering a hand up.

After a beat, Noct takes it and pulls himself back up to standing. "Nothing a bowl of soup won't fix."

Iggy joins them, brushing his shoulders free of frost. When he says, "I'll see what I can manage," Prompto is surprised to discover his voice is uneven.

Then he remembers that this Ignis has never seen the Glacian. This Ignis just got an object lesson in what's probably been a very abstract tale of future endeavors, until just this very minute.

Prompto can sympathize. Shiva's kind of overwhelming, the first time. He got a late reveal, himself, in the long, dark corridor's of a Niflheim experimental facility, after spending entirely too long in Ardyn's not-so-tender care.

He sneaks a look at Gladio – sees that the Shield's side-eyeing one of the icicles that hangs from a low rooftop. It would be funny, except he looks so damn grim about it, like he's swallowing down something he's half sure is poison.

Prompto feels a pang of sympathy, all at once. He thinks he understands how Gladio feels. If it was him, he'd have wanted to hold out hope the whole awful story was bullshit, too. Shiva just smashed that possibility into a thousand tiny pieces.

The snow fades like a memory of a dream on waking, all chill crystals and delicate powder that's there one moment and gone the next. When it disappears, the ground is still damp from the moisture, but there's no other hint that she was even here. Warm air rushes in like a blessing, and Prompto sighs in relief, grateful for the temperature change.

"Think that's about enough for tonight," says Noct. "Let's get out of here."

They could go back to the records room, now that the base has been flattened. They could take their time. Prompto opens his mouth to say it, but then he lets the thought go unsaid. There's no telling whether the Empire radioed out for reinforcements. They got lucky coming out of that elevator the first time; he doesn't really want to take his chances again.

Besides, they've got a pack full to bursting with possibilities, and nestled in it, somewhere, are the crumbling documents and their notes. A whisper in the back of Prompto's mind keeps saying they'll be enough.

So he follows Noct out beyond the glaring lights and concrete walls. He plops himself into the front seat of the Regalia, and he grins when Iggy puts the top down. The night air's warm in his hair, and the stars are bright overhead, and Prompto reaches out to turn on the radio.

It feels like it's been a long time since he's had a victory this clean.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I seriously can't get over how incredible the response to this fic has been. You are all amazing, and I love every one of you. Thank you so much.

They roll into Lestallum at four in the afternoon.

Iggy's at the wheel, can of Ebony in one hand, and Noct's napping in the back. Gladio's got his book out – licks his thumb absently before turning the page. 

The air's sweltering, hot and sticky, and Prompto can feel the sun beating down on him, an endless pulse of warmth that ought to be too much. He welcomes it, though – even when he closes his eyes, he can see bright daylight filtering in through the lids. Even when he closes his eyes, he can feel the heat of the sun up above him.

Gladio goads Noct awake – prods him in the shoulder, until he groans and stirs enough to bat the offending hand away – while Iggy slides the Regalia neatly into its usual spot.

Then they're clambering out of the car and making for the Leville, streets of the city laid out before them.

It's strange to be here, maybe moreso than anywhere else they've been. Prompto spent a lot of time in Lestallum, the first few years after the sun stopped rising – shuttling refugees and dropping off supplies for the ladies at the power plant. There are ramshackle shelters in these streets that aren't standing because he hasn't built them yet. There are people living in these houses that he knows, even though he's never met them before.

No one's crying in alleyways, folded in and hurting because they've lost family and friends. No one's at the perimeter, standing guard. The flood lights and wiring that overrun the city in a year and a half aren't up yet.

That apartment, there on the corner – that's the one Iggy takes, when they ask him to settle down and help manage the city's supplies. But here he is, whole and unscarred, walking beside Prompto and sipping at his Ebony.

Prompto closes his eyes, the new city and the old swelling up inside him to make a strange and powerful emotion that isn't quite nostalgia. The insides of his eyelids glow red with the light of the sun, and when he opens them again, he says, "So what's the game plan?" just for the distraction it will provide.

Noct lifts one shoulder in an offhanded shrug. "Get some food, get a room. Hole up for a couple of days and start a study club."

Ignis' tone is decidedly arch when he says: "Would that I had known while you were in high school that all it requires for you to apply yourself is the impending end of the world."

Gladio snorts. "Might not be too late. Time travel's a thing now, case you haven't heard."

Prompto feels a smile threatening -- lets it wash over him, slow and surprisingly easy. "Hey, Noct. Got any memories of Iggy cracking the existential whip yet?"

Noct fixes them all with a sour look. "As king," he says, deadpan. "I hereby forbid time paradoxes for the sake of my GPA."

Whatever comes next – and Prompto's sure there's going to be more, cause Gladio's already opening his mouth to reply – is cut off by one of the street vendors calling out the magic words that derail any conversation, ever: "You boys want a sample?"

Of course they want a sample. They pass around the skewer, one chunk each – roast daggerquill in spicy peanut sauce – and just like that, they've found where they're eating dinner.

They throw themselves down on the ramshackle plastic chairs against the dirty brick wall and stretch out, watching as the light slanting through the alleyway changes shades to the dusky orange of sunset. Prompto works his way through three skewers, mouth burning in the best kind of way, and by the time they're finished, the sky above them has faded out to the violet of early evening.

The Leville waits for them at the end of one of the twisting streets when they're done, still a hotel, its rooms not yet converted to permanent apartments to help accommodate the city's new residents.

Noct pays for two rooms – ignores Ignis' pointed look and Gladio's teasing smirk – and hands his advisor the second set of keys. 

"We'll get started first thing tomorrow," he says. "In the meantime, we could all use some rest."

It's true. Prompto's not bone-deep exhausted the way he was after Costlemark, but they've been up since yesterday afternoon. So he says, "Sweet dreams," and gives Iggy and Gladio a hand half-raised in farewell, falling in behind Noct on the way back to their room.

With a click of the lock, they're in, surrounded by soothing sea tones and eccentric mechanical sculptures on the wall. In the corner, the fan's off, and Prompto crosses over to fix that; the blades spin to life, lazy and reluctant.

"Dibs on the shower," Noct says, as soon as he gets the door closed.

"Dude," says Prompto. "You always get the shower first. How bout you share?"

There's a beat when Noct just looks at him, level and thoughtful. While he does, Prompto's brain catches up to his mouth and realizes there's another meaning hiding behind that suggestion. 

He feels his face go hot – watches Noct's mouth twitch into an expression that's trying very hard not to seem amused.

"Sure," says Noct, and steps into the bathroom. "Guess there's room for two."

There is room for two – barely.

They soap each other's backs and wash each other's hair and let the water grow tepid while their hands wander.

After, they curl up on the bed, blankets a rumpled pile at their feet – kicked down unceremoniously, because who can even think about blankets in this heat? Their hair's still damp from the shower, and Prompto's starting to drowse, tucked up against Noct's side.

The sun's long down, and the lights in the room are out, but from the open window there's a distant yellow glow from the building across the way. The world's narrowed to the faint sound of drums from a street musician, and the aroma of cinnamon and fried dough from a dessert cart nearby, and the feel of Noct's bare skin, pressed up against him. 

It's good.

 _Everything_ is good. He feels loose and boneless, full of drowsy affection. One hand is trailing back and forth over Noct's shoulder blade. 

He thinks Noct's sleeping already, down and out as soon as they're done, as usual, when Noct's voice cuts through the distant sound of the drummer's rhythm: "You should've said something, if you thought he'd be there."

Prompto shifts. From this vantage point, he can't see anything but the pale skin of Noct's chest and the rumpled sheets beneath them.

He remembers, uncomfortably, that Noct promised they'd have a talk later.

"It worked out, didn't it?" Prompto says, and hopes that'll be the end of it.

"It might not have."

Okay, so much for hoping. There's something in Noct's tone that he doesn't like, something firm and somber with a hint of hurt. Prompto kicks himself for putting it there – for giving Noct more to worry about, on top of everything else.

"I'm sorry, okay?" he says, awkward and more than a bit guilty. "I messed up."

Noct draws back slightly – puts enough space between them that he can examine Prompto's face in the dimly-lit room. "Stop doing that," he says.

"Doing what?" Prompto doesn't want to see the tension in Noct's jaw or the way his lips have pressed thin in displeasure – lets his gaze land on the rumpled fabric of the sheets, instead.

" _That_ ," says Noct. "Missing the point."

This isn't going to work. The easy comfort of the night is gone, washed away in a flashflood he never saw coming. Prompto pushes himself up to sitting, draws his arms in around his chest. "So tell me what the point is," he says, a bit sharper than he means to.

Noct sits up, too. One side of his hair is flat from the pillow, and his face, all secondhand light and shadow, is a study in unhappiness.

He says, "You're so casual about it," then pauses, head bowed, like he's trying to find the words.  "You just – rush in, or rush off. And oh no, it's fine, we're just maybe going to run into the asshole who tortured me in a dungeon for a week and a half. No big."

Prompto stares at him for a good ten seconds, processing that. "What?" he manages, at last.

"Like I said," Noct says. "Missing the point."

And yeah, Prompto guesses he has been. He's dropped the ball so low it's rolling on the ground – outted their secret, and almost got the Mace of the Fierce eaten by a zu, and led them into potential danger without a word of warning.

And _this_ is what Noct's been worried about?

"Uh, dude," says Prompto, feeling a little blindsided. "Your priorities."

"I'm not finished," says Noct, and there's an edge to his voice. Prompto goes quiet.

He waits while Noct shifts on the bed – while he opens his mouth like he wants to start talking, then closes it again. 

At last Noct says: "I'm still here because of you." He's staring at a spot behind Prompto, somewhere on the wall. "And I _want_ to be here because of you. So when you... when you run off like an idiot, or keep dumb secrets, you're not helping anything."

Noct trails off into silence. Prompto's known him for a long time, though – can read in the set of his shoulders, hunched and tense, that he isn't done. 

"You're acting like you don't matter," Noct says at last. "I kind of hate it."

There's something beneath those words, something vulnerable and honest. Prompto can't think of a single intelligent thing to say. So he dredges up a weak smile, and he says, "Hey, in my defense, all the cool kids were keeping secrets."

Noct's eyes narrow. "Prompto," he starts.

But Prompto cuts him off, rushes the words out in his haste to get them said. "No," he says. "No, I get it. Okay? You're right." He swallows, the sound loud in the quiet room. "What do you wanna know?"

Noct's expression is level and even, giving nothing away. He says, "Why don't you start at the beginning?"

"The beginning," Prompto echoes, blankly. He keeps staring at Noct, hoping he'll take it back – hoping if he waits long enough, that suggestion will miraculously transform into something different. A beat of silence passes, and then another. Prompto reaches, absently, to pick at the leather band around his wrist. "That's, uh. Kind of a lot."

"We have all night," Noct says.

Prompto wonders, briefly, why the Six have forsaken him. He wonders if hurling himself from the window and breaking every bone on impact will get him out of this conversation.

And maybe, if Noct was pushing, he'd be tempted to try. Tempted to manufacture some excuse, to throw clothes on and find an open bar and drink until sunup. But Noct's not pushing. He's just watching, expectant, and much as Prompto doesn't want to give one, he deserves an answer.

So he licks his lips. He says, "Get comfy. This might take awhile."

Then he takes a breath in, and he lets it out slow, and he starts to talk.

He tells Noct about realizing the sun's never going to rise, and 90% of the population going down the drain, and the little girl at Galdin Quay whose parents were red smears on the sand. He tells Noct about running out of food, and fishing trips armed to the teeth, and being two steps from starving most of the time. He tells Noct about Gladio taking off to look after Iris, and the ladies at the power plant with their miraculous green house, and Iggy getting asked to stay on at Lestallum. 

His throat's dry, and his eyes feel like they're burning, but Prompto picks at his wrist band and keeps going.

He tells Noct about almost dying in a back stable at the old chocobo ranch – about his strange dream, the first of many, and coming back to find he hadn't been missed. He tells Noct about kissing Cindy behind the garage at Hammerhead, and how he kind of broke apart, and her remark, so cryptic then, so perfectly clear in retrospect. He tells Noct about his rundown room, and drinking Cid's whiskey in the garage late at night, and how Cindy made up reasons to get him off the couch on the days he never wanted to move again.

His throat feels raw. His breathing's not quite even. At some point, Noct's shifted to sit beside him, shoulder to shoulder, and threaded their fingers together. Prompto leans against him, and tightens his hold, and keeps going.

He tells Noct about the dreams – about a small white dog, and how he met her years ago, and the way she's been guiding him to gilded doors for a month now. He tells Noct about the strange empty place, and the massive face of metal and wings of swords, and Ardyn, with his insinuating smile and hands that hurt. He tells Noct about the Mace of the Fierce, and the voice of a dead king, and watching Ardyn break apart to reveal something black underneath.

Prompto stops, then. He's shaking – thinks he has been for quite some time. But he's not done, yet. If there are going to be no more secrets, there's something left to tell.

So he tells Noct about seeing him, that first night – about a space of feet that seemed to stretch for miles. He tells Noct in stumbling, not-quite-adequate words about that awful day, in year nine, when it occurred to him that Noct might never come back. 

Prompto takes a breath, and it hitches in his throat. And he tells Noct that sometimes, when he wakes up in the tent with Noct's sleeping bag beside him, when he opens his eyes and finds Noct's face there, still and peaceful in sleep, he has to convince himself that this is real. Has to talk himself into believing that he _has_ this, for however long it lasts.

When Prompto finishes, there's silence.

Outside, at some point, the drummer's stopped playing. The digital numbers on the bedside clock read 2:37, and his throat aches like he's swallowed broken glass. Inside him, where the words used to be, he can't find anything left.

Noct uses the hand that's joined with Prompto's – fingers twined, palm to palm – to draw him close and turn him until his forehead's resting on Noct's collar bone. He sets the other hand at the base of Prompto's skull, steadying and warm. 

Then he cards his fingers through Prompto's hair, so very careful, the way he did that first night in Hammerhead, Prompto half out of his skin with the panic of a fading nightmare and the overwhelming feeling of someone else's touch.

Prompto takes a shuddering breath in, and lets it out slow. He takes another, less steady this time.

It's the third before he realizes his cheeks are wet, and that the hitching gasps sound suspiciously close to sobs, but by then it's too late.

He's shaking with the force of it, strangled and mostly silent. He bites his lip, and tries to ride out the unfathomable pressure in his chest, and is crushingly grateful when Noct disentangles their fingers so that his arms can make a careful loop, drawing Prompto in. 

They stay that way for a long time.

And when Prompto finally eases away, red-eyed, he scrubs at his face with one palm and Noct hands over the tissue box.

Prompto goes through three – quirks a crooked smile and uses the fourth to pat at the decidedly damp patch on Noct's bare shoulder. His laugh is hesitant and sheepish, now that he's through the thick of it. "Sorry, dude. Didn't mean to turn on the waterworks."

"Hey," says Noct. "I'm the one who wanted you to lay everything out like that. Kind of my fault."

Prompto reaches for another tissue – scrubs it over his cheek, sticky and warm, so hard he thinks it's probably left tiny white particle scraps behind. "Yeah, well. Maybe it'll help – us both having the whole picture."

He leans up against Noct's shoulder, limp and exhausted, feeling nothing but a bone-deep, hollow-chested relief. 

They sit like that, for a long moment. The sound of Noct breathing is hypnotic, a gentle rhythm against his side.

At some point, Prompto drifts, because the next thing he's aware of is an arm around him, easing him down to the crisp white fabric of the hotel pillow.

He must make some sort of inquisitive noise, because Noct leans in to whisper in response: "Shh. It's nothing. Go back to sleep."


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven't seen the art that the incredibly talented rah-bop drew for [Chapter 8](http://rah-bop.tumblr.com/post/159503239121/gift-for-asidian-an-illustration-for-their-ffxv) and [Chapter 9](http://rah-bop.tumblr.com/post/159503229576/gift-for-asidian-an-illustration-from-their-ffxv) of this fic, please check them out! They are absolutely stunning!
> 
> Also, sorry this chapter took so long, guys. It kicked my ass so hard I needed twenty-seven elixirs and three phoenix downs. Just saying.

Prompto wakes with a nightmare swimming, half-remembered, in the back of his mind. 

It's not sharp and vivid, like they have been recently. It's a vague sense of unease, and the flash of metal, and Ardyn's face, entirely too close, as the pain begins.

Prompto sits there in bed for a long time, panting – waiting for his heart to slow down. Outside the curtains, the sun's just starting to make its daily rounds, and the sounds of the city waking up drift in with the first of the morning light. Someone's wrestling a pushcart over the uneven walkways, the creak and clack of wheels on stone, and a child shrieks laughter, wild and carefree.

The sound of it finally lets him take a full breath, and then another. 

Noct's still an unresponsive lump beside him in the sheets, and Prompto figures that'll be true for a couple more hours, at least, considering when they finally got to sleep.

So he makes himself some coffee, and he gets his phone out, and by the time Noct's cracking an eye open, the three-headed dragon that guards the scepter at the end of the Crystal Caverns is history, and Prompto's halfway across the Fields of Emerald.

"Dude," says Prompto. "Did you know you can trade earrings to the old guy in North Town for weapons? I had like a hundred of those things. Now what the hell am I gonna do with all these axes?"

Noct pulls the pillow back over his head. "How are you awake?" he groans, plaintively.

Prompto's figured out he can sell the axes for a pretty stack of gold the next town over by the time Noct staggers away, to complete the mysterious bathroom ritual that transforms a shambling member of the undead into a cranky but mostly human Lucian king. When he emerges, he helps himself to coffee – makes a face and pokes Prompto ungently in the ribs. "Thought we talked about you leaving coffee out to die."

"Think I remember us deciding that there's no help for it, if it's been sitting out twenty years before someone wakes up to drink it," Prompto says. Then he yelps when Noct pokes him again, laughs and twists away. "Combat rounds!" he protests, when Noct smirks and does it again, but by the time he looks back at the screen, half his party's dead. 

"Aww, man," says Prompto. He stares down at the flashing GAME OVER – taps the game closed and flops belly-down on the bed. "Anyone ever tell you you're evil before breakfast?"

Noct takes another pull from his coffee cup, longer this time. "Seems like the easy way to fix that'd be feeding me."

"You could have said something before you got me stomped by a minotaur." But Prompto's reaching for his pack anyway – fishing out a breakfast bar, raisin and walnut. He never used to carry much food on him, but now he's got enough for two people to go a whole week, easy. And maybe Noct catches a glimpse of the hoard beyond his reaching hand, because he's got an odd look on his face when Prompto hands over the snack.

"Thanks," is all he says, though. He unwraps the bar and bites into it – adds, around a mouthful of granola, "I'll catch up to you later. We can show that minotaur who's boss."

And Prompto grins at him, and fishes out a breakfast bar of his own, and thinks that this is a routine he could get used to: lazy hotel mornings with King's Knight and half-assed breakfast and Noct's hair still mussed from sleep.

An hour later, they've both got their phones out. An hour later, Noct's still trying to get past the three-headed dragon in the caverns when he says, casual and easy, "I know that face you saw."

And Prompto, who's on his way through North Town, doubling back to come help, says, "Huh?"

Noct taps at his screen. He says, "Metal everything. Strong mouth. Hard eyes. Helmet. Wings made out of swords. I know who it is."

Prompto's so busy staring that half his party drops dead of poison, but he can't bring himself to care. "Who is it?" he says.

"Bahamut," Noct says.

"What?" The rest of Prompto's party falls, unmourned, in the grassy Fields of Emerald. " _How_?"

Noct lifts a shoulder in an offhanded shrug. "Dunno. He was there with me in the Crystal, though. I recognized him from your description. Kind of hard, mistaking someone like that."

Prompto's quiet a minute.

He thinks of the empty place, white and fathomless. He thinks of the overpowering presence there, the crawling feel of eyes on him. He wonders, uneasily, if that's what it feels like to catch the attention of an Astral.

He can't dwell on it for too long, though, because Noct's nudging him with an elbow a moment later. "You gonna help me fight this dragon, or what?"

"Uh, yeah," says Prompto. He wrenches his thoughts away from dreams – back to the world inside his phone, where death is temporary, an inconvenience to be overcome with the application of an item. "Sure."

And for a while, they don't think of anything except for adventure, and treasure, and getting Noct past the dragon that guards the scepter.

Right up until a voice drifts through the door of their hotel room.

"Are the pair of you quite awake yet?" It's Iggy's voice, with the sort of tone that says, clear as anything, that he's been up since 5 am, and he's had three cups of coffee, fixed his hair, read the newspaper, gone shopping, and put gas in the car.

"No," Prompto and Noct call, in unison – then share a conspiratory grin at the long-suffering sigh that drifts through the door.

"I suppose I'll have to see if Gladio is interested in an extra omelette or two, then. It would be a pity to have to throw them out."

Prompto and Noct share a long glance. "On our way," Prompto calls, and Noct says, "Don't you dare!" and Ignis waits for them while they throw on clothes and make something respectable of their hair.

 

* * *

 

They hole up in Iggy and Gladio's room around noon to break out the papers they rescued from Tollhends.

By one in the afternoon, the tidy pile on the desk in the corner has migrated to part of the counter and one of the chairs. By three, the papers have completed their slow-motion hostile takeover of every available surface, including half of the bed and most of the floor. Prompto's lying stomach-down on the quilt in the bed's remaining available space, kicking his feet while he reads. Noct's sitting under the window, blatantly half asleep already. Gladio's shoved the papers on the chair back to the floor so that he has somewhere to sit, and Iggy, for lack of anywhere else uncluttered, is standing, leaning against the wall, a sheaf of paper in one hand and a can of Ebony in the other.

Poor guy. It reminds Prompto of late-night study sessions over at Noct's back in high school, when he'd spend an hour or two trying to keep them from wrecking the place and then eventually – reluctantly – give up with a final pointed remark or six.

But there's method to Prompto's madness.

He knows exactly where everything is. The pile by his feet is finished and promising. The pile by his knee is finished and pretty much guaranteed worthless. He's got three separate piles for incoming – one each for Gladio, Noct, and Iggy – to look over stuff they've already had eyes on. The pillow's got his to-do stack. The blanket in front of him, creeping out to surround his elbow, is covered in what he's working on, a bag of half-eaten gysahl chips, a mostly full bottle of water, a beat-up black spiral notebook, and a well-chewed pencil.

Absently, Prompto ferries another chip to his mouth and turns the page with the other hand.

He's not great at this, if he's going to be honest. Some of his stacks are tech-heavy, and those he's okay with – but those probably aren't the ones that're going to be important.

He's pretty sure the ones they need are the set he's looking through now: ancient history, the stuff translated from those crumpled old documents that look ready to fall apart at the slightest breeze. The originals have the safest spot in the room, up on the desk for safety's sake, and he wouldn't dare touch them. The copies he's got are holding up well enough, though. They're printed, kind of an old-fashioned typeface, on plain white paper with lines of perforation and rows of holes running up the side. Every page has the date – twenty years ago, give or take – and the name of the translator.

The thing is, Prompto's not a history buff.

Sure, he can list the kings and queens of Lucis in order; every school kid can do that. But this is way older, back before Lucis was even a blip on the map. This thing talks about a time when the Astrals walked the land, and the early days of some divine war, and the birth of a prophecy.

Just seeing the word there on the page makes his hand shake a little as he fishes for the next chip.

The prophecy. 

He's never really read it. The closest he's come are the snippets in those Cosmonogy magazines, language too vague and flowery to make much sense of.

But here it is, laid out on the page: the whole thing. Prompto wonders, with a hint of trepidation, whether this copy, sandwiched into a drawer at the bottom of a Niff base, is the original. He wonders whether the crumpled document laid out on the desk is the source that's been picked up and passed down through the ages. He wonders how the hell the Empire got their hands on it in the first place, and why it was here, in Lucis, in a relatively new base, instead of in the Imperial capital for safekeeping.

Prompto crunches into another chip, bitter and salty. He bends his head and starts to read.

A few minutes later he straightens up, frowning.

He tears a sheet out of his notebook – scribbles down: "Hey. What did Bahamaut say to you again?" He folds it into a sloppy paper airplane and sends it sailing Noct's way, then snorts out a laugh when it lands nose first in his hair and startles him awake.

Noct fixes him with a look, flat and unamused. It's a remarkably indignant look for someone who was napping on the job until like five seconds ago. Prompto flashes his most innocent smile – waits patiently while Noct opens up the airplane, reads the note, and frowns down at it.

He pins Prompto with a dubious look. "What, verbatim?"

Ignis and Gladio look up from their work. Prompto shrugs. "Probably important, right? Close as you can get it."

Noct fixes him with a long, inscrutable stare. At last he nods and starts to scratch at the page with his pen, and Iggy and Gladio turn back to their own stacks. A minute later, an even sloppier paper airplane lands on Prompto's chip bag.

He answers with a sunny grin – ignores Noct's over-exaggerated eye roll in favor of opening up the airplane and laying it out next to the typed page.

Prompto's eyes scan the translation. They trail back up over what Noct's written.

And side by side, there are differences.

They aren't big. And it's been awhile, since Noct got told what to expect. Maybe he just doesn't quite recall word for word anymore. Only, Prompto remembers a dream. He remembers a dead Lucian King, saying, "Only at the throne will Providence change the course of man, and only at the cost of a life."

And that's not what Noct has. He's pretty sure that's not what Noct told him that first morning, either. But it's what's on this typed version.

So Prompto says, "Hey, Noct. How sure about this are you?"

Iggy and Gladio are watching again. Noct glances up, too. "Pretty sure. It's not exactly the kind of thing you forget, you know?"

"Huh," says Prompto. He eats another gysahl chip and goes back to his reading. 

Most of the text's the same. Identical, word for word.

But in one spot, Noct's says: "Only at the throne can the Chosen receive it, and only at the cost of a life: his own. The King of Kings shall be granted the power to banish the darkness, but the blood price must be paid. To cast out the Usurper and usher in dawn’s light will cost the life of the Chosen. Many sacrificed all for the King; so must the King sacrifice himself for all."

And the translation says: "Only at the throne will Providence change the course of man, and only at the cost of a life. The King of Kings shall banish the darkness, but the blood price must be paid. To cast out the Usurper and usher in dawn’s light will cost a life of the line of Lucis. Many have died that the King may walk his chosen path; so must the King die for all."

It could be nothing. It could just be faulty memory, cause they were too damn dumb to write it down weeks ago, when they first had this conversation.

Only, Noct's memory's pretty good. He was always the one who knew the obscure trivia for their history tests, and who could remember which character said what line in that play they read for English three semesters ago. If he says he's pretty sure, that means pretty damn sure, like 99.9% positive.

So. That leaves what, exactly?

The translation could be wrong. Or the original document could be from a different source. Or it could've been copied and copied again, until some of the original meaning's washed away.

Prompto reaches for another chip – hits the bottom of the bag, instead, smooth and greasy and lined with gysahl crumbs. He takes his hand back out, absently, and licks at his fingers.

He feels like there's something he's missing, here. Some other possibility. 

He thinks about Bahamut, what little he knows: that stern, hard face, and the wings all of swords. He thinks about a dreamscape of white: strangely, unnaturally blank, covering up the halls of Tollhends Stronghold for weeks while they searched for where to go. He thinks about that nothingness: miles and miles of it, all that he could see. 

Until he found the crack.

It comes like a light flickering on in a dark room, a sudden glow of intuition that wasn't there before. Another possibility – and here Prompto's been skipping over the simplest one all along. 

His heart speeds up, some strange mixture of excitement and trepidation. He scratches in his notebook, sloppy in his haste to get it down, and copies out the two versions of the prophecy side by side. In the margin, he writes: Misremembered? Mistranslated? 

Hiding something?

He circles the last. He circles it again, and he tells himself it's probably the dumbest thing he's ever written. Why the hell would a god lie about his own prophecy?

And why would it make a difference, anyway? It's such a small change, when in practice – in actual effect – the content means exactly the same thing.

He jots that down, too – adds a jagged arrow that branches off to one side, and the single word: why?

Then Prompto crumples up his empty chip bag, tosses it toward the hotel's trashcan, and keeps reading.

 

* * *

 

They're eight hours in on day four when Ignis says, "Prompto, your handwriting is absolutely atrocious. Does this say 'hilted stranger'?"

Prompto blinks. He can't remember writing anything about a stranger, but honestly at this point his brain's kind of mush. "Probably not?" he ventures.

"The prophecy," Iggy clarifies. "What in the world is this beside it?"

"Oh," says Prompto. "Hiding something."

Noct's down and out by this point – has been for a couple hours by now, curled up under the desk like a cat amid ring of paper. But Gladio's wide awake, and he snorts and says, "Who, sleeping beauty over there?"

"Nah," says Prompto. "Bahamut." He turns the page to keep reading.

"Why," Ignis asks, voice even, "would Bahamut be hiding something?"

Prompto glances up – realizes, belatedly, that they're both staring. "I dunno," says Prompto. "I wrote it down, didn't I? Why."

"Hmm," says Ignis, thoughtfully, and Prompto thinks that's the end of it.

Until thirty minutes later, when Ignis says "Hmm," again.

"What's up, Iggy?" Gladio asks.

"This is remarkable," says Ignis, which really doesn't answer anything.

"Yeah?" Prompto says, idly.

"Come and take a look," says Ignis.

So Prompto does. He stands and tip-toes around the mounds of paper all over the floor, until he's standing beside Ignis, who's leaning over the desk.

There, spread out on the wooden surface before him, is one of the timeworn pages that the translation comes from. It's barely hanging on; the edges are missing, and it's lost a chunk in the center, but most of it's intact. Pretty lucky, all things considered, cause it's an illustration.

The picture itself is all sharp lines and hard corners – style over form. There's none of the hyper-realistic classical painting that old art from Lucis seems to have. No, this one's block shapes and bright colors. It reminds Prompto of the stylized suns etched into the doors at Costlemark.

But the picture it portrays is much more elaborate than that.

It's the sky, bright blue, set with ridged shapes that suggest clouds. Below, a woman in the water raises her hands, holding a trident. On an island nearby, a massive man, bald and tattooed, lifts a mountain as though it weighs nothing at all. An elderly man with a beard sits on one of the clouds itself; his hair twines into the white of the cloud beneath him, and he holds a bolt of lightning above his head, as though he means to throw it like a javelin.

Above them all, in the center, hover two figures – one smooth of feature, wreathed in flames; the other a mass of armor, intricately detailed, with wings of blades.

The first is raining fire down onto the earth far below, where the tiny figures of people can be seen, caught in the flames, burning. The second figure has a sword drawn, a line of hard, flat grey. He's pushed it straight through the chest of a woman in white and blue.

Ignis gives them a moment to look it over. Then he says: "Most versions of this scene depict Bahamut engaged in battle against Ifrit. I've never seen one that shows them as allies."

"Huh," says Gladio. "Kinda weird, isn't it?"

Ignis is still staring down at the page, where the stylized figures act out a war from thousands of years ago. "Indeed," he says. "At the very least, I would expect something this significant to be in a museum somewhere."

Prompto can't keep from staring at the figure with the swords. The mouth is a hard, dark line, the eyes a piercing blue. "Wonder if the Niffs raided it from somewhere."

"Like a tomb?" says Gladio.

"Or a temple," Ignis puts in, thoughtfully.

Prompto says, "Seems like a waste. Why go to all the trouble, just to stick it in some basement and never look at it again?"

But even as the words are leaving his mouth, he thinks: so that we can't find it.

The thought comes so suddenly that he has to bite down on his lip to keep from making a sound. It's like before – a light in a darkened room, or a key in a lock, or – or something else bright and revelatory that he can't think of words for right now.

It hovers there in his mind, like it holds all the answers to the universe, but no matter which way he turns it, Prompto can't make heads or tails of it.

 

* * *

 

That night, Prompto dreams.

He's standing outside the Citadel, and the lanterns on the gateposts are all lit up. Above him, the sky is black and filled with stars. The high arch of the entryway is flanked on either side by solemn women in robes.

Standing at the top of the stairs is a small, white dog.

"Hey, girl," says Prompto. "It's been awhile."

She yaps a bark at him – turns and runs inside – and Prompto follows, climbing the stairs.

He passes polished floors and painted masterpieces, walks through the doors they used when they set out on their journey so many years ago. He remembers how proud he was, then. How excited. How young.

From outside, Prompto can hear the groans and creaks of daemons, but here, in the Citadel's elegant halls, everything seems still and quiet.

He follows Pryna into the throne room – takes in the state of it, one side of the ceremonial staircase leading up to it swallowed by rubble. Still Prompto follows, just a step behind the dog as she veers to the right, taking the only way up to the throne.

And there, at its base, she sits down.

Prompto stands there for a minute, staring at her – waiting for her to get up and keep going. The words come to him then, unbidden, echoing in the chamber – or maybe just in his own mind. "Only at the throne will Providence change the course of man, and only at the cost of a life."

Prompto says, "Oh, no. Oh, hell no. We're not done yet."

Pryna looks at him, steady and level.

Prompto says, "We don't have what we need."

Pryna keeps looking. She doesn't rise to lead him anywhere else.

Prompto says, "We're not coming here until I have a way to _help_ him!"

And he turns – walks back down the stairs, away from the throne. By the time he hits the doors to the Citadel, he's flat-out running, as though he can outpace whatever the future holds.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can I just say how incredible you guys are? Seriously, thank you so much for the kudos and the comments.
> 
> This has been a wild ride, and I think we're in the home stretch. Probably only three or four chapters after this one. I hope you guys are still enjoying! <3

At the end of a week in Lestallum, they still don't have anything to go on.

They're been through the papers with excruciating detail, until they're all cranky and sick of the work. Prompto's fingers are cramped, and the sides of his hands are stained grey from the pencil smudges. Every time he closes his eyes, he sees that old school typeface dancing behind his eyelids.

They're going on day eight when it finally happens. Prompto's midway through his pile of Iggy's notes, the second time through. 

Noct's sitting propped up against the far wall, knees bent, papers on his lap. He hasn't turned a page in a long time when he finally says, "Guess we better check the Vesperpool, after all."

It hurts, more than Prompto thinks it will. Something in his chest turns over and dies a little. 

He's not sure why it feels like giving up, but it does. 

 

* * *

 

The Vesperpool's just like they left it: pretty, and deadly, and always raining.

The following week goes to slogging through the marshy ground, and riding chocobo-back through the glassy water, and poking through the dark corners of Steyliff Grove. At night, they pitch the tent on the rocky ground of the haven, trapped inside by the rain, all of them damp and sore.

And when Prompto finally beds down in his sleeping bag, the dreams come with a vengeance. 

It's like someone flipped a switch in his brain. Gone are the harsh corridors of Tollhends Stronghold, washed away as though they'd never been. Now Prompto spends his nights walking the halls of the Citadel, following the _click_ , _click_ of a dog's nails on the polished floor. 

The details change, from dream to dream. Sometimes the place is pristine, exactly as they left it. Sometimes there are daemons in the courtyard before the entryway. Sometimes the throne is empty, and he doesn't see Pryna at all until he reaches it and finds her seated there beside it, tail wagging anxiously.

And sometimes – sometimes he finds Ardyn reclined in the king's seat, all lazy satisfaction and deceptively unthreatening smile. 

 

* * *

 

The Vesperpool has nothing for them, so they hit Cape Caem next. 

They search the lighthouse, and climb to the bottom of the cliff and poke through tide pools washed by ocean spray. They stay in the wooden house with Monica and Talcott, and every last nerve of Prompto's feels like it's been scraped raw. The last time they stayed here, it was the day before they set out for Altissia.

The last time they stayed here, it heralded everything going wrong.

Prompto lies staring up at the ceiling until long past when everyone's asleep, the sound of Gladio's snores a reassuring chorus. It's close to midnight when he gives up on trying to drift off – disentangles himself from Noct and slips out.

The sea is peaceful at night. Prompto leans on the fence overlooking the drop and stares out at black water highlighted in sketchy strokes of white by the moon. He can hear waves down below, a distant, hypnotic pull and rush. The breeze makes goosebumps stand up on his arms, and he realizes distantly – disinterestedly – that he didn't bother to change. He's only got on his sleep shorts and a ratty old t-shirt.

He stays that way for a long time, looking out. It's got to be an hour later, or maybe two, when someone says, "Nice night."

It's Noct, voice still rough with sleep. He hasn't put on real clothes, either – comes up to stand beside Prompto in his black silk pajamas and bare feet. He bumps companionably up against Prompto's shoulder, then fixes him with an accusing stare. "You're freezing."

"It's not so bad," says Prompto. "Just kinda windy."

Noct gives him a hard look, inscrutable, and shifts a bit nearer, so that at least the part of Prompto sharing the contact has a heat source. He shivers, involuntarily – realizes, now that there's the warmth for comparison, exactly how cold he'd been.

"What're you doing up?" Prompto says.

When he glances to the side, Noct's face softens into a fond sort of smile. "Guess I don't know what to do anymore, when you're not taking up the whole damn bed."

"Hey," says Prompto, offended. "I'm not that bad."

"Yeah," Noct snorts. "Feed me that line next time I wake up with your elbow in my side."

So of course, Prompto puts an elbow in Noct's side. He gets an aborted squawk in response –  a counter-poke – a scrambling, short-lived squabble that leaves them both out of breath and grinning.

"Come back in," says Noct, when they settle down. "Monica said the pantry's got hot chocolate."

Something in Prompto's chest turns over, warm and too full.

The grin slips away, and he swallows.

He ought to tell Noct about these new dreams. He promised, didn't he? No more secrets.

Instead, Prompto says, "Yeah, sure. That sounds good."

And he follows Noct inside.

 

* * *

 

Cape Caem has nothing for them, either.

They move on down the list – hit the rest of the Imperial bases, one at a time, long days spent driving punctuated by nights riddled with gunfire.

The last one is Formouth Garrison, and when they leave it, battle-weary and empty-handed, no one speaks as they return to the car.

Prompto dreams that night: the lanterns out front of the Citadel, and the robed statues guarding the doorway, and the stairs up to the throne. Ardyn is there, the layered folds of his outfit spilling down the sides of Noct's chair, ever-present hat set at a jaunty angle.

Ardyn says, "My word. Nothing ever seems to quite go your way, does it?"

Prompto bites down on his lip, so hard he thinks it might bleed.

"Then again, it's not the end of the world." The Chancellor spreads one hand in an elegant sort of after-you gesture. "Why, you'll get practically everything back. The sun, the charming little towns, a safe and relatively happy citizenry."

"Go to hell," Prompto chokes out.

Ardyn clucks at him – actually clucks at him, like he's a wayward child. "Oh, don't be that way. You've known all along."

He has. That's the worst part. He _has_.

All he's been doing is buying time.

"Come and see me, Prompto," says Ardyn, and he smiles, sly and conspiratory, like he's sharing someone else's secret. "It's far past time to stop pretending."

 

* * *

 

They check into the hotel at Longwythe at Ignis' insistence. He claims they need proper baths and time to reexamine their strategy, and it's been a long couple of days. No one wants to argue.

The last time Prompto saw this place, an iron giant had knocked in the window of the Crow's Nest while he crouched under the counter, doing a frantic once-over for canned goods they might have missed on an earlier pass.

But way before that, back before the sun stopped rising, this is where he found Noct one night, sitting up on the hotel roof under a sky bright with stars. This is where he unloaded his heart, when the idea that he just wasn't good enough was the biggest worry on his troubled mind.

Enjoy it while you can, he wishes he could tell that younger version of himself.

Prompto spends all of dinner trying to work up to it.

While they eat their greasy fried salmon, he's rehearsing in his head, and by the time they're done, he's still got nothing. He's trying to put that sentence together all the way back to the hotel room. He's worked through about five different ways so far, and all of them are wrong.

Figures Noct would know something's up.

He hangs back when they reach their hotel door – hands the keys over to Iggy. "We'll catch up," he says. 

Ignis gives them both a long, considering look. He shares a wordless glance with Gladio, one that seems to say something Prompto isn't privy to. At last he says, "Do keep out of trouble, won't you?"

And he unlocks the door to let half their group inside.

"C'mon," says Noct, and Prompto doesn't have to ask where they're going.

They end up on the hotel rooftop, of course, hard and gritty under his palms when he's finally seated, legs swinging over the edge. For a minute or two, they just sit there. Prompto has time to appreciate the sky: the moon's out, huge and white, and behind it the stars are an ocean of lights, like on that long-ago night.

Then Noct says, "You gonna spit it out, or what?"

Prompto huffs a half-hearted laugh. "That obvious, huh?"

Noct fixes him with a sidelong glance. "The only thing you said during dinner was 'Who's got the ketchup?'"

Prompto doesn't answer right away, though. He kicks his feet a little, and he stares out at the electric glare of the rest area's lights. There's a lady puttering through the shop down there, taking her time picking through the shelves of items on display. Prompto wishes he could change places with her.

"Prompto?" says Noct.

He hasn't even opened his mouth yet, and he feels like he's going to cry.

He says: "What if we just stayed here?"

"What?" Noct turns to look at him. There's a crease set between his eyebrows, hard and defined.

"I mean," says Prompto. "Time's not going to go anywhere until we get back, right? We could stay for as long as we wanted. Months."

Years, he thinks, with a sudden flash of yearning. They could stay for years. 

Nothing's stopping them. They can cobble a life together, if they want to – make up a patchwork of moments. If the sun starts spending less time in the sky, well, they can always go back to the present for just long enough to reset and do it all over again. Wash, rinse, repeat.

They can have it for as long as they want: lazy hotel room mornings, playing King's Knight and lounging in bed while Noct complains about his coffee. The top down in the Regalia and the breeze through their hair. Nights curled up side by side in their sleeping bags with Gladio's snores as the background soundtrack to their trip across Lucis.

"What are you talking about?" says Noct. But he's starting to get some sort of idea, Prompto knows. He can see it in Noct's face, in the way it goes tense and wary.

"This," says Prompto, and he gestures toward Longwythe – and out beyond it, to the whole country. "Us. Why don't we stay?"

Noct's staring hard at his face now, eyes flickering back and forth like he's trying to read a treatise on Imperial politics. "Something happened."

Prompto swallows again. Reluctantly, he nods.

"Yeah," he croaks. "Something happened."

Noct waits. A second of silence stretches too long – a moment that becomes two, and then three, pulled out thin and brittle, past when it should have broken.

Prompto says, "The dreams changed." 

Noct doesn't reply. His face is pale and still, like the faces of the statues flanking the Citadel's doors in his dreams. The shape of Noct's cheekbones, the curve of his mouth – all of it seems ancient and preordained.

Prompto says, "Pryna's still there. But lately she's been taking me to Insomnia."

"To Insomnia," Noct echoes, the words stripped of inflection.

"Yeah," says Prompto. He licks at his lips. "To the throne."

The quiet spreads out like mist blanketing the ground. Noct's face is empty, blank in exactly the same way it was for those first few terrible days after King Regis died. He's thinking of those words, Prompto has no doubt – the ones that promise he'll die there, seated in his father's chair, to bring sunlight back to the world.

At last he says: "So that's it, then. We're done."

"We're not," Prompto says, fiercely. "We could go check out Galahd, or someplace in Accordo we've never been. We can keep looking."

Noct's eyes are too bright, raw around the edges, out of place in that sculpture-still face. "Prompto," he says.

"And there's all of Niflheim," says Prompto. "I mean, if they had that many records in some concrete box in Lucis, imagine what they've got stashed away in the Empire."

Noct presses his fingers to his forehead, eyes slipping closed. "Prompto."

Prompto's voice is edging up, creeping into a higher pitch. "I mean, we have as long as we want, right? The future's staying where we left it."

"Prompto," says Noct, very quietly. And there's something in his tone this time, something that wasn't there before, that slices through Prompto's babbling and makes him fall silent. 

"We have to go back," says Noct.

For a moment, there's nothing – no sound but their breathing.

Prompto tries to tell himself that he knew this was coming all along. He tries to tell himself that it was a long shot from the beginning – the barest brush with the edges of hope. Who the hell goes charging off, trying to prove a thousand year old prophecy wrong? Who stands up and tells the gods, "No, sorry, I know what you had planned, but we're not doing that"?

He feels like Titan must have all those years, holding up the Meteor – feels like something incomprehensively massive is on his shoulders, crushing him.

Prompto says, "I know."

He opens his eyes, and the lights from the store below him have gone blurry and smeared, streaks of pale yellow in the night. He reaches a hand out and finds Noct's, pressed against the rooftop. He pulls at it until it comes free, turns it so that their palms are pressed together, fingers entwined.

Noct says, "We'll tell Iggy and Gladio that we're leaving in the morning. That we found what we need."

"Right," says Prompto.

He closes his mouth on the rest of what he wants to say. It's bitter on his tongue; it burns in his lungs.

Beside him, he can hear Noct take a short breath in, like he means to start talking, but words never come.

Above them, the moon is high and bright; somewhere off on the plains, a night bird calls. They stay that way for a long time, and Noct's hand in his own is the only warmth to hold back the chill of the desert night.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've come full circle. Now that we're back at the beginning, the only way to go is forward.
> 
> Thank you guys so much for the continuing support. Every single comment or kudos is cherished more than you'll ever know. <3

They say goodbye to Ignis and Gladio first thing in the morning, standing in front of the beat up plastic table outside their hotel room.

Noct lies through his teeth, and Prompto lets him. It'll be better, letting at least two of them think this has a happy ending.

There's a lot Prompto wants to say before they leave. Things like, "Sorry I was so weird," and "Actually stay in touch this time around, cause I missed you guys." He wants to sit Ignis down and let him know that, no matter how hard what's coming seems, he'll work through it in the end. Iggy's just that awesome.

But long goodbyes are hard, and Noct's ready to go, so all Prompto says is, "Well, see you guys in a couple of years, I guess."

He doesn't think he quite sells the off-handed smile. He'd be willing to put down good gil that Iggy knows something's up. It's too late to worry about it now, though. 

Umbra's here, with his piercing dark eyes and thick black fur, sitting on the wooden porch of the hotel and waiting for them patiently.

Prompto goes to tuck his arms in against himself, stomach turning over in a sudden twist of dread, leaden and nauseating. At the last second, he remembers that Iggy and Gladio are still watching, and forces his hands to hang by his sides instead, pretending at something casual and unconcerned. When he looks up, he sees the expressions on their faces, Ignis' searching and all too aware, Gladio's creased with a furrowed brow and the beginnings of a frown.

Ah, hell. He's not fooling anyone.

Guilt trickles in to take up shop in his already-churning stomach, cold and heavy. Any minute now, Ignis and Gladio'll get back their real traveling companions, the ones who are ten years younger, careless and carefree, with no knowledge of what the years ahead hold. Any minute now, Ignis and Gladio'll get an object lesson in how it feels to pretend the future's going to turn out just fine.

Prompto opens his mouth to say, "Sorry." The word's on his lips.

But when he forms it, he finds that Ignis and Gladio aren't there anymore. All that's there is the dusty packed earth outside a caravan that's streaked with rust and battered by the passage of time.

High above Hammerhead, the sky is a bottomless black, devoid of moon or stars. The glaring spotlights that keep the daemons away spill across the ground, out into the dead man's void beyond the chainlink perimeter. And there, standing beside him, is Noct: thirty years old, broader shoulders, lined face, hints of Regis in his jaw, and in his hair, and in the sculpture-perfect shape of his nose.

 

* * *

 

Prompto's room waits for them, just where he left it, all decade-old furniture with no hint of personal touch to soften the edge.

He yanks the cord that coaxes the single bare bulb into life, and takes in the reminders of his time here: the battered old couch, and the tiny plastic table with his dust-covered camera, and the cot that creaks like an old man's bones.

"Home sweet home," he says, trying for levity – feeling the way his voice does something strange and choked, instead.

He can feel Noct's eyes on him, intent and searching. He thinks if he sees that expression there, that cultivated mask perfected to keep out the prying eyes of a watchful world, Prompto will break. 

So he's not looking when Noct says, "We've still got those two days."

That's right. Prompto had forgotten, lost in the past and all its possibilities, that Ignis and Gladio will need time to arrive. Two days, Noct had offered him, back at the start of everything. They'd seemed like nothing. 

Now, they're a gift.

 

* * *

 

They stay in Prompto's closet of a room, and Prompto shows off Cindy's mechanical wonders. They burn a half-dozen of Iggy's old recipes, trying to replicate them. They make bad coffee and play the rundown pinball machine Talcott hauled in from old Lestallum. 

In what passes for evening in this world without a sun, they sit with Cindy in the garage, in uncomfortable metal chairs, and drink whiskey from paper cups until the world's sharp edges are blunt enough that they don't cut quite so deeply.

Two days slip past, in the blink of an eye.

 

* * *

 

Prompto's narrow cot isn't made to hold two.

The springs groan, and the flimsy pad that passes for a mattress is narrow, and Prompto has to lie crammed against the wall to make space for Noct. But on the second night, back pressed against the cracked plaster, feeling the desert chill through the barrier that separates him from the outside world, he's grateful for the tight space. It means that for them both to fit, Noct has to be pressed up against him, every inch, from shoulders to calves.

Prompto has his eyes closed, just breathing. He's trying not to think that this will be the last time he gets this – that after tonight, there are no other chances.

Noct's pretending to be asleep, but Prompto knows better. There's no hiding, in quarters this close; he can feel the tension along Noct's spine, can mark the tiny shifts in his breathing, not quite even.

All at once, Prompto can't stand this being the way they leave it. He can't stand this being the final night, still and silent, both pretending to be okay, neither saying a word while the minutes slip between their fingers.

He opens his eyes – takes in the rumpled shape of his threadbare blanket and the curve of Noct's collar bone. He presses a kiss there, feels it warm beneath his lips.

"Noct," he says. He lifts one hand, so very careful, to run his fingertips across the smooth skin of Noct's shoulder.

"Yeah," says Noct. "I'm awake."

Prompto shifts backward, but only far enough to gauge Noct's expression. He finds something he understands all too well written in his old friend's face – something disconcertingly open. Those eyes, with that peculiar shade of night-sky blue, pin him with their scrutiny.

Something under Prompto's ribcage shudders into uncertain life, like the tentative flutter of moths' wings. It's delicate, as though someone's pieced it together from scraps, but it swells in him until it's lodged at the back of his throat, thick enough to choke.

"I figured," says Prompto.

He presses another kiss to Noct's collar bone, and then to the small white line of a scar on his upper arm. It's probably the least badass scar ever earned – a token from a pair of stupid boys in a long-dead city, jostling one another on the pad for the new dance game at the arcade until Noct slipped and fell, catching himself on the machine's sharp metal edge on the way down. There had been a crowd, Prompto remembers, staring at the crown prince sprawled out on the thin carpet covering the arcade floor. Noct had turned a subdued shade of pink, and Prompto had said he was sorry probably a dozen times before the day was over.

He remembers how scared he was, that his first real friend would decide he wasn't worth the trouble. He remembers thinking that he wouldn't see Noct again, after that day.

But the next day, Noct had shown off his scar, healed to something shiny and pink with the help of a potion, and told Prompto he was like an RPG protagonist now, with a battle wound to mark his victories. Prompto had laughed so hard he choked on his soda, laughed until Noct grew mock-offended and poked him in the ribs.

He's not laughing now. 

He runs his lips over the little scar, and over the beauty mark Noct has on his shoulder. He kisses Noct's chest, glimpsed bare a hundred times after gym class, fuel for years of furtive late nights and half-remembered dreams.

In return, Noct's hands come up to cup his face. The pads of his thumbs trace at the hollows beneath Prompto's eyes and the scruff of his goatee.

Everything hurts, like grief is a physical creature curled in his chest, grinding away at his bones. Every time his heart beats, he hopes the ache will grow less, but it keeps swelling, and swelling, until Prompto's sure something will give.

He leans up, so carefully, to press a kiss to Noct's mouth. It's slow – heat and exploration, languid like the afternoon sun.

Prompto's eyes are burning, and he blinks, and blinks again, determined not to let himself cry. Noct only has a little while left. He doesn't want to waste it on tears.

The second kiss is harder, almost desperate. By the time they're finished, Prompto is trembling, every line of him too tight, as though braced for a blow he knows is coming. He trails his kisses out over the pale expanse of Noct's neck, feels the rasp of the beard against his skin. He makes a line down Noct's chest, to the flat plane of his stomach and the dip of his navel.

Above him, he hears Noct take a soft breath in. His fingers thread through Prompto's hair, gentle pressure, and Prompto thinks, inanely: we should have gone fishing more, when we had the chance. We should have spent every day we had on the wooden pier at Galdin Quay or the slidshod scrap of a platform at the Vesperpool, or even that ugly concrete river on the edge of Cleigne. 

Prompto presses his forehead to Noct's abdomen, just for a moment.  Noct's solid and very real against him; the hand in his hair makes small, soothing circles. Prompto thinks he might cry, and he bites down on his lip, hard, to hold it back.

Then he swallows and begins to move again, hooks his fingers into the elastic at the waist of Noct's black boxers and tugs.

Noct shivers when Prompto's hands run over the pale skin of his thighs. And when Prompto leans in to nuzzle at the length of him, to lick him into awareness, he shifts and sighs, rearranging himself to provide easier access.

For a while, that's all there is: the taste of Noct, salty-musk on his tongue. The feel of Noct's fingers in his hair, petting and encouraging, sweet pressure against his scalp. The sound of Noct's breathing, growing gradually more ragged, until at last a soft noise of pleasure escapes him, too loud in the quiet room.

He comes without fanfare, without warning – just a press of hips and a surge of wet, and Prompto swallows it down, and works him through it, until Noct lies quiet on the rickety cot mattress, hands still tangled in Prompto's hair.

At last, when he's well and truly done, Prompto disentangles himself, gently, and climbs up into the spot he vacated. Behind him, the chill from the cracked plaster seeps into him like a sickness. He's still half-hard, but he can't bring himself to do anything about it.

"Try and get some sleep," says Prompto, mouth so near to Noct's shoulder that his voice comes out muffled.

He doesn't see the look Noct fixes on him in the silence that follows, but the seconds tick by, heavy and deliberate. At last Noct says, "You really are an idiot," but he says it slow and kind of wondering, as though it's a revelation.

Then he reaches for Prompto, and Prompto lets him. And for a while at least, a few seconds toward the very end, he almost forgets what will come tomorrow, with the dawn.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE END IS NIGH

Ignis and Gladio arrive in the middle of the following day.

They're the versions Prompto doesn't know anymore. Gladio is the rough, distant soldier that this world has turned him into, and Ignis is the kind, capable man who lives in Lestallum, the one Prompto hasn't seen for a year and a half.

When they see Noct again for the first time, Prompto can read an echo of his own pain in their faces. He draws himself away and gives them space – wonders, for the first time, if they remember standing outside the hotel at Longwythe, saying goodbye.

They retreat into Takka's restaurant, the four of them, when the greetings are done.

There are no stools for idle customers, not anymore, and Takka himself is long gone. The days when Prompto would sit and kick his legs and burn his mouth on the chili are years in the past. But there's something here, fragile and familiar, about all four of their voices talking together, in the hollowed-out shell of the place they started their journey.

They must be there for hours, but it only feels like minutes. Whenever Prompto thinks he's got ahold of himself, he becomes aware that time's jerked him forward again, and they're that much closer to setting out.

It's Noct that moves them along, of course.

It's Noct that stands up and says, "Guess we better get going."

They borrow Talcott's truck and drive it to the overlook outside of Insomnia – the one where Prompto took a picture, half a lifetime ago, of a bridge over still water, framed in black and white. He remembers his pride over that picture with a dull, distant ache.

That's where they pitch the tent.

The work's second nature, even after all these years. Prompto carries the supplies, and he unfolds the chairs. He sets the cook station up just right, unpacks the cookware and lays it out in a row, left to right, so that Iggy can find everything he needs.

The campfire is like a slice of the past, golden and comforting. Noct's words, when he speaks, cut through the false sense of security like a razor. 

For dinner, they eat tender egg and chickatrice meat over a bed of moist white rice. It's Noct's favorite, of course.

They all have their own ways to say goodbye.

 

* * *

 

Prompto dreams, and in his dream, the lights of the Citadel glow yellow and warm, like miniature suns. They line the stairs that lead to the grand arched entryway, and they illuminate the still, stone faces of the solemn women who stand guard over the very heart of Insomnia.

There at the top, beneath the curve of stone and the glimmer of glass, sits a small, white dog. She is pale and insubstantial, like a ghost in the heart of this dead city, and she's wagging her tail.

"We're on our way," says Prompto, and the words come out flat, a little bitter. "Are you happy now?"

But Pryna turns and runs inside, and with the heavy certainty of a man who's seen this nightmare countless times before, Prompto climbs the stairs to follow her in. 

The throne rises like a gravestone before him, dark and solid in the cavernous stretch of the chamber. Ardyn is seated upon it, a luxurious spill of clothes draped over his frame and a dark promise in his eyes. He looks up when Prompto enters, as though he's been waiting.

Then he turns his head and looks beside Prompto, instead.

It's not until Prompto follows his gaze that he realizes Noct's here, too, regal and somber, every inch a true king. The sight of him here, in this place where he's meant to die, raises gooseflesh all along Prompto's arms. He wants to tell Noct to go, to get out, but before he can speak, Ardyn beats him to it.

"The king and his beloved," says Ardyn, voice low and insinuating. "Kind of you to join me." He spreads his hand, elegant and inviting, and smiles the smile that takes center stage in all of Prompto's worst nightmares. "Now: if you'll kindly give me my due."

"Your due?" says Prompto, wary.

But before he can say anything more – before Ardyn can elaborate – Prompto feels a tug at the sleeve of his Crownsguard uniform. It's Pryna; she's set her teeth around the fabric, almost gently, and is tugging downward.

All at once, he understands.

"Dude," says Prompto. "No freaking way am I bowing down to that asshole."

"Prompto," says Noct.

And when Prompto turns to look, Noct is already kneeling. The sight turns his stomach, to see his best friend like this, bowing down in his own throne room before a man who's done nothing but make his life a living hell.

Noct sets a hand on Prompto's other sleeve – draws him down, gentle and inexorable, until he's there beside Noct, on the polished floor of the Citadel, Ardyn looming above them like some promise of dark days to come.

And Noct says, "It'll be okay. We can do this."

Ardyn's laughter fills the chamber up until it echoes. It fills _Prompto_ up until he wants to vomit.

He comes awake in the tent, gasping and blinking back tears.

Prompto sits there in his sleeping bag for a long time, still shaking. He sits until the dream recedes to something bearable, and then he crawls from the tent in the dark of night to sit in his chair and make coffee and watch the dying embers throw their red-orange glow out against the world.

 

* * *

 

Insomnia is nothing like the way they left it.

It's not a homecoming; it's like walking into some strange, distant funhouse mirror version of a place he used to love.

Where before there were towering buildings of glass and steel, now there are sad piles of rubble. Where before the streets overflowed with people – middle-aged men on the way to the grocery store, and little girls heading home from school, and fashionable ladies out walking their dogs in the park – now there's nothing but daemons.

It's hard going.

They claw their way, inch by inch, through the darkened city streets. They take shelter below ground, in the staff rooms where the Crown City subway employees used to spend their breaks when they pulled the night shifts. They speak of days gone by, and days to come, and they ignore the glimpses of what they used to have: that 24-hour place where Prompto used to get ramen, and the karaoke joint they dragged Gladio out to for his twenty-first birthday, and that spot, right there, on the Citadel steps, where they all stood a lifetime ago, setting out on what they were sure was a two-day road trip.

The Citadel itself is like a monument from a dream – high arched doorway; elaborate architecture, carefully carved; the statues of two women, still and solemn, standing guard over a dead city.

All along the walkway, lights glow soft and yellow, dozens of them, like miniature suns.

When Prompto turns to look at Noct, he feels a strange sense of unreality, like a wave of vertigo. When he turns to look at Iggy and Gladio, it's so strong his knees almost give and drop him on the floor. Any second now, he expects to hear the bark of a small, white dog.

But all that reaches his ears are footsteps. They're not his own, and they don't belong to any of his companions.

They belong to the man who stands now on the stairs before them, with his elaborate layers of clothes and his ever-present hat and his deceptively unthreatening smile.

Prompto feels something in his stomach twist and go sour; breathing is suddenly so much harder than it was just seconds before. His chest is too tight, like there's a bar of steel pressing down on it. The sight of those hands, the ones that have brought him nothing but pain, make his legs feel unsteady.

He's aware, peripherally, that Noct flicks a glance his way – that he takes another step forward, to put himself between Ardyn and Prompto.

But Ardyn, it seems, is playing a different game this time.

"Ifrit," he says, apropos of nothing. "The Infernian. He doesn't share the Glacian's fondness for mankind, but you can expect a warm welcome."

It's a weird thing to say. So weird that Prompto wonders, for a moment, if he's misheard. He can see the hesitation on Noct's face, too – see the confusion reflected there.

But he doesn't get the chance to ask. Ardyn's gaze sweeps them one final time, and he lifts a hand, in a casual wave, as though greeting an acquaintance on the street. "I shall await you above."

Then he turns to walk away.

The sound of his footsteps on the stairs is unhurried – but before any of them can take another step to follow, flames flare up, bright and sudden. The heat from them bakes Prompto's face; even the proximity makes his skin sting, the way it did on Mt. Ravatogh all those years ago, standing above a lava flow and trying for the perfect picture.

He squints his eyes shut against the brightness – half-raises a hand to block his face. When he can slit one eye open again, he sees that the Infernian is there, lounging upon a makeshift throne, wreathed in fire.

Ifrit is terrifying and beautiful, somehow both at once – like a roaring wildfire, the dancing tongues of flame a stunning sight to behold, right up until it eats your flesh from your bones. Prompto can practically feel the malevolence pouring off of him, can see it carved into every cruel line of the god's face.

There's no time to think anything more than that.

Noct's pushing forward, hunched against the heat, and it's either follow or let him go on alone, and Prompto would rather fling himself straight into the flames than let him go on alone. The closer they get, the more unbearable it becomes; he thinks he can smell something burning, and he wonders if it's their hair.

Then Ifrit raises a careless hand, and suddenly they have much bigger things to worry about.

Flames coalesce into a ball, larger than a person, swelling and pulsing. Prompto just has time to think that there's no way any of them are going to survive this when he registers that it's flying directly toward Noct.

Prompto curses and lunges – gets there a second too late. Noct's already down, already screaming.

"Noct," says Prompto, and throws himself on top, to smother the flames. "Hang in there, buddy." He slaps at the fire, trying to put it out – is all too aware of how damaged the clothes are, and how damaged the skin underneath must be.

It takes what feels like years for the fire to go out. Noct's face is lined with agony, hands curling and uncurling weakly as he tries to handle the pain. "Stay down," Prompto manages. "We'll keep him busy."

Gods. They've barely even started and they're already getting their asses kicked.

He squeezes off a shot against the Infernian – slips sideways, trying to keep Ifrit's attention away from his friends. He shoots again, and again, and he thinks: this isn't going to work. They need cover, and they need it _yesterday_.

Of course Ignis is already on it. He's bundling Noct under a ledge, and not a second too soon, because the Infernian lifts a hand again to send a new wave of fire their way.

Prompto yelps and ducks down to join them – shields Noct with his body, as best he's able. There's the soft crunch of breaking glass, and the green glimmer of healing magic, and he hears Noct beside him, taking in a breath of relief.

The worry in Prompto's chest, that knot of impending dread, loosens just slightly. Some part of him assures itself, silently: not yet.

He's here a little while longer.

Then the fight explodes into action, and Prompto stops thinking entirely.

The world's light and heat, and he's right there, trapped in the middle of it. It's hard to see – hard to breathe. Every time he fills his lungs, he feels like they're going to get barbequed from the inside out. The metal of his gun is too hot to the touch, like trying to grab onto a car seatbelt after it's spent all day in the sun. He thinks his hands are blistering from the contact, but he can't bring himself to care.

Prompto shoots, and dodges a new gout of flame, and shoots again. Sweat's pouring from him – sticking his hair to the back of his neck. His uniform, tailored black knee-length coat and all, feels like an oven. He has no idea how Gladio and Noct are getting closer, no idea how Noct can stand to be there, right up in the Infernian's space, daring to slash at him with a blade while the heat radiates off Ifrit's skin like a heat mirage on a desert road.

Prompto only glances his way for a second. He's only distracted for a _second_ , but it's a second too many.

Tongues of flame lick at him – catch his sleeve on fire – and Prompto screams, shakes it desperately, trying to put it out. It spreads, creeping along his shoulder, and then his back, and maybe the desperation pitch of the screaming has gone up a notch or two, because he sees Noct looking back over his shoulder at the sound.

Then suddenly, Ignis is beside him, with a murmured, "Stay still a moment," and healing magic washes over him, cool and soothing.

"Thanks, Iggy," Prompto manages, voice still hoarse. Then they're moving apart and jumping back in, because in a battle like this one, there's no such thing as downtime.

Nothing exists except for his finger on the trigger and the endless motion of his companions, caught up in the twist and pull of combat. Time slips by – minute after minute, every indrawn breath a triumph of survival.

Then the air goes heavy and strangely red-purple, the light motes dancing in the sky so much more than just the embers from the fire.

Prompto glances to his left – sees Gladio crouched down, crushing a potion in his bleeding hand, while Ignis draws his arm back to throw another dagger. He glances to his right, and there's Noct, standing straight and tall like the statue of one of the kings of old, hair floating in a nonexistent breeze, eyes glowing the violet of magic.

Prompto expects Ramuh, who's helped them out of more life-or-death situations than he can count. He expects Shiva, whose gentle freezing touch shatters even the fiercest of enemies.

He's not expecting the figure that appears above them in the sky, huge and imposing, wings of blades a glimmer of steel in the moonless black that the sky has become. He stares up, wide-eyed, at Bahamut's elaborate armor – at his swords, row after row of them, spreading out like a deadly fan. He feels that creeping sense of _attention_ he always has in his dreams, a feeling of scrutiny so strong it's oppressive.

Then Bahamut is diving in, wheeling down on wings that should not be able to hold him aloft, and the first of his blades slices through the air toward Ifrit.

The Infernian vaults from the steps. He twists and dodges, deadly grace, and Bahamut pursues. But the next blade misses, and the next. By the third, Prompto's brow is furrowed, because since when do Astrals miss? Ramuh would have skewered the guy already. Shiva would've had him half-frozen.

But Bahamut misses again – comes up beside Ifrit, wings spread. 

It's the sight of them there, side by side, that tugs Prompto's mind into recognition.

The memory comes to him all at once: a yellowed piece of parchment, inscribed with two stylized figures, hovering together in the air. One is smooth of form, wreathed in flame; the other is intricate in his elaborate armor, with wings of blades.

Both of them are raining down fire on humanity, and Iggy's voice is saying, "Most versions of this scene depict Bahamut engaged in battle against Ifrit. I've never seen one that shows them as allies."

In the present, Noct's moving now, pressing the attack, but Prompto stands there, shocked motionless.

Since when do Astrals miss? When they don't want to hit, of course.

Prompto's thoughts are going about twenty miles over the speed limit, twisting and tumbling and tripping over themselves in their haste. He thinks about a piece of paper with two prophecies, laid out side by side. He thinks about his own handwriting, a sloppy scrawl in the margin. 

Why, he'd written. Why would a god lie?

Because, Prompto thinks, feeling the blood drain from his cheeks. Because maybe he was never on our side at all.

Noct launches himself forward, the edge of his blade catching Ifrit across the chest. And Prompto stands there, staring, as Bahamut fades from view, not a single one of his weapons having put a single cut on the Infernian's body.

Prompto's body starts to move, slowly and jerkily, on autopilot. He lifts his gun and squeezes off a shot – moves and dodges and brings his circular saw up to cut into the leg of a god.

But all the while, his mind's a hundred miles away. All the while, he's in that white place, the one where Bahamut kept him trapped, far away from what he needed to find.

Fire rains down like a volcano's eruption, and Prompto ducks and takes cover, reviewing ancient verse in his mind all the while. Flames crackle above his head, so close he's sure some of his hair's been seared away, but he's ten years back, in a room in Lestallum, frantically searching for anything to help Noct.

Shiva comes, dampening the sweltering heat and pressing a deadly kiss to the Infernian's forehead, but when the fight is over, all Prompto can think is: what was it you didn't want us to know? Which part was the important part?

Because suddenly, he's sure there _was_ an important part. Suddenly, the hope swelling in his throat, making his heart pound out a frantic rhythm, it enough to choke him.

Gods dammit, he needs – something. No matter how many times he turns it over, there's some piece that just won't fit.

The battle is done. The Glacian's ice has melted. They've killed a god.

"I guess it's time," says Noct, quiet and resigned.

And Prompto wants to scream. He wants to haul Noct out of Insomnia and keep him somewhere safe. He wants to fight this every inch of the way, and to hell with the consequences for the world.

But he thinks of a small, white dog, sitting there beside the throne. He thinks of her bright, intelligent eyes, and her wagging tail, and he wonders how far they ever would have gotten, without her.

"Yeah," says Prompto. "I guess it is."

He might be missing a piece of the puzzle, still. But he thinks he knows where he'll find it.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 17: In which a prophecy is fulfilled

The throne rises before them, dark and solid in the cavernous stretch of the chamber.

Ardyn sits upon it.

His hat is set at a jaunty angle; his posture seems relaxed, but there's a kind of tense expectation in the pretend-casual pose. He looks up when they enter the room, as though he's been waiting. Above him, suspended like a prize he wants to show off, the Crystal glows with a sickly violet light.

It casts a strange glow across the room: out over the floor, and onto the corpses that dangle from the ceiling like the broken dolls of a kid that's prone to tantrums. Prompto recognizes Noct's father, face gone grey in death; he recognizes Lady Lunafreya, pale limbs and tattered dress.

Prompto's no stranger to death, not anymore. The past ten years have shown him all too much of it. But still: those bodies are terrible things. Heavy chains bite into long-dead flesh and cast shadows on the floor.

The sight makes Prompto's arms prickle with unease, every hair standing up on end. It's not just the bodies – although, gods, what a sick bastard, the _bodies_ – but all of it. The Crystal-light, and the empty throne room, and Ardyn himself, smile oily and anticipating.

Prompto wants to look away. He wants to go puke quietly in a corner.

That's off the table right now, though. He needs his eyes and ears wide open.

There's something he has to find.

"I'm afraid you're out of luck," Ardyn says to Noct, in the slow, accented drawl that haunts all of Prompto's worst dreams.  He seems entirely too expectant, as though this is the first act of a play he's wanted to see for a long, long time. "The throne brings you here? It only seats one."

Prompto dares to take his eyes from Ardyn, just for a moment. His gaze flickers out sideways, toward his friends.

Gladio is all serious dark eyes and barely-concealed hostility, every inch a Shield ready to stand before his king. Ignis is the pinnacle of perfect posture, straight back and squared shoulders, expression calm and composed and diplomat-smooth.

And Noct – Noct looks like a king from a painting. He looks like classical sculpture, all strong nose and solid jaw. He looks like one of the brave, bearded men in their history books from high school.

He almost seems to glow, with an unearthly sort of light – the ethereal radiance of the Armiger, Prompto knows. The weapons of the dead are his to command, ready and waiting as soon as he needs them.

"Off my chair, jester," says Noct. "The king sits there." He says it without flinching, even though he knows damn well what's supposed to greet him when he takes his rightful throne.

But Ardyn doesn't rise. He smiles his lazy smile, laced with razor-sharp malice. "What kind of a king," he says, "leaves his people to ten years of darkness?"

Noct grinds his teeth, a visible flex in the muscle of his jaw, and he says, "A better king than the one who put them through it."

Prompto's first thought is that the reply makes no sense.

It brings him back fifteen years, to when Noct was an awkward kid who tried too hard to be cool. Their mock-arguments, amiable and enthusiastic, over the best flavor of ice cream or which video game hero they'd most want to meet in real life, inevitably ended in some unfortunate comeback that made Prompto laugh so hard he couldn't breathe. For an instant, he's sure it's happened again here.

But no: there's no moment of embarrassed retraction, no stumbling attempt to recover. Noct tosses the words out like a challenge, and he leaves them there.

So Prompto says, "What're you talking about?"

"What he told me in Gralea," says Noct, never once taking his eyes off of Ardyn. "Guess who's my great, great, great, great grandfather?"

Ardyn's smile creeps wider. "There's a resemblance, don't you think?"

"Every family tree's got a few bad apples," says Noct.

And there it is, there's that trying-too-hard retort, but Prompto's too preoccupied to appreciate it. His brain's busy setting off every proverbial alarm it can reach, loud and blaring and urgent.

" _He_ is from the line of Lucis?" says Ignis, at the same moment Gladio says, "This asshole was _king_?"

Ardyn sketches a mock bow and makes to rise from the throne. "For a time."

It's like someone's jump-started a struggling car.

All at once, the engine that wouldn't turn over judders to life. All at once, Prompto's not stuck poking around under the hood at the side of the highway anymore. He can _drive_. 

His mind sets them out, side by side, two versions of the prophecy. He's gone over them so many times by now, he's pretty sure he has them down verbatim.

In a flash of insight, Prompto understands – and for an instant, he's sure his legs are going to dump him on the ground, there on the Citadel's polished floor. He's sure he's forgotten how to breathe, and that he may never remember again.

Because of course the differences matter. Of course the tiny wording changes are important. In Bahamut's version, _Noct_ has to die. In the prophecy closeted away in a filing cabinet at the bottom of a Niff base, the sacrifice has to be a king of the line of Lucis.

Prompto hadn't thought it mattered. He'd thought it amounted to the same thing.

Only now – now, suddenly, Noct isn't the only king.

Ardyn's halfway to his feet by now. He's going to stand, and walk away, and leave the throne empty for Noct to take. 

Prompto can't let that happen.

His chest feels as though it's wrapped in thick iron chains, like the corpses dangling from the ceiling. His heart's slamming in his throat, loud and hollow as a drum. Fear tastes like metal in his mouth.

He makes himself speak anyway – makes himself raise his voice over the sudden rushing in his ears. "Some king," he hears himself say. "Where's your court? You got, what – a crumbling Citadel and an empty throne room?"

He's aware, peripherally, that Noct is staring. Gladio is, too, and Iggy's got his head cocked a little, like he does when he's listening.

Ardyn says, "I have exactly what I need."

The tone makes Prompto hesitate. It's a tone that he knows intimately – a tone that brings to mind steady hands, holding him down; broken bones and careful cuts; a deliberate map of black and purple, all across his skin. 

Prompto takes a breath. He digs his nails into his palms, and he says, "No shiny ring. No crown. Sorry, your majesty. No one even cares enough to kneel, anymore."

Noct shifts beside him. There's a soft sound of indrawn breath, as though he means to speak.

Ardyn beats him to it. "You'd think you would have learned." Deliberately, he sinks back down onto the throne – stretches out, languid and content, like he has all the time in the world. "Perhaps another lesson is in order."

Then he snaps his fingers, and suddenly the air itself is pressing down on Prompto's back. It's unbearable tension, all at once:  a swell of sickly purple magic, the sort favored by giants. It pulses in waves, tugging as though it's the inescapable center of the universe.

Prompto gasps under the force of it, knees buckling, and falls to the floor – barely manages to catch himself by the palms of his hands. Beside him, Noct goes down, too, and Iggy and Gladio follow.

"The hell do you think you're doing?" Gladio grinds out, voice low – pitched for Prompto's ears. "He was ready to fight us!"

"Yeah," Prompto pants, elbows shaking as he tries to keep his face from slamming into the floor. "Sorry. Guess I – guess I got carried away."

"Anyone got a way to break a spell like this?" says Noct.

"Not me," says Gladio.

"Uh," says Prompto. "Nothing here."

Then he holds his breath.

Because Iggy has a way. Of course he does. He's Ignis, and he has plans stacked on top of his plans. He's advisor to the king; he kept Lestallum from starving to death or overflowing into the dark of the night. He's been able to dispel gravity magic since year four, when one too many iron giants cracked one too many of Prompto's ribs and he really set his mind to the task.

But he's _Ignis_ , and he's never been anything but uncannily perceptive. His face is angled Prompto's way, as though he can see something hidden from the rest of them. 

And all he says is, "I'm afraid I won't be of any help."

Prompto closes his eyes, just for an instant. He owes that man a drink, if any of them make it out of this alive.

"Of course you won't be of any help," Ardyn says in reply, almost crooning. "None of you will." His smirk is languid and self-satisfied; his eyes linger on them each in turn. "An advisor without sight to guide the way. A Shield whose charge can't be protected. A cast-off Imperial weapon." The words drip out like the lazy patter of just-beginning rain. "Quite the sorry entourage."

Noct struggles to rise, then – really struggles, until Prompto can see the cords standing out in his neck. He says, "They're the ones I _chose_."

Prompto needs to say something. He needs to – what? Slip under Ardyn's skin. Find something that will cut. Come up with an excuse to get himself close to the throne.

And then – he's not sure. He'll do something. He'll think of that when he gets there.

The problem is, every instinct Prompto has is screaming for him to shut the hell up. Contrary to what Ardyn thinks, he did learn his lesson – and that lesson, ground in the hard way, was that things always go worse when he lets his mouth run away with him.

But if there was ever a time to be afraid of the past, this isn't it.

So he says, "Dude. We're better than what you've got." He takes a good, hard look around the empty throne room, all for show. "You're really gonna make fun of a guy for his retainers when you're sitting up there all by your lonesome?"

He can see the moment the pleasant veneer begins to crack. He can see the false amusement peel away to very real cruelty. "Concerned for me, are you?" says Ardyn. "Well, then. Perhaps you can help to remedy the situation."

Prompto just has time to think: jackpot.

Then the spell holding him down creeps from uncomfortable to unbearable. It feels as though he's being crushed under the weight of the air – as though something's trying to force him into the floor. He hears a snap, and his left arm buckles; the wave of searing pain comes a moment behind. Prompto goes down flat, ribs bruising under the strain. His voice when he screams is jagged and raw, and he's aware, vaguely, that Noct's calling his name.

Then, all at once, the pressure stops. He lies there, panting, free from the spell – though when he cracks an eye open, it's to see that the others are all still restrained.

"Prompto," says Ignis, and there's a question in his tone. Prompto says, "No, it's good, I'm fine," and hopes he understands.

Ardyn ignores them both. He says, "Come here," pleasant and light, as though he didn't just break bones on a whim.

"Don't," says Noct. "Prompto – _gods_."

The weight returns, and Prompto screams. This time, he's sure he hears a few ribs crack. He's aware, distantly, of his friends' voices – aware of Gladio calling Ardyn a coward, and an asshole, and worse. Prompto squeezes his eyes closed and tries to breathe, but he can barely lift his chest to get the air in. His cheek is pressed up against the floor, and sweet Six, the bone there's starting to grind against the unyielding surface.

He thinks might cry, or maybe puke from the pain, but before he gets a chance, the spell relents.

"Quickly now," says Ardyn.

Prompto groans. He gets his shaking arms under him and pushes up to his knees. Then he remembers that maybe – maybe yeah, don't use the left arm right now. He swallows, sways, and forces himself to stand.

"Leave him out of this, Ardyn," says Noct, voice hoarse and tight with something that sounds like fear. "This is between us."

"Not anymore, I'm afraid," says Ardyn. Then, to Prompto: "Tick tock, little automaton. If I were you, I wouldn't want to find out how unhappy I become when I'm kept waiting."

The pain is like a blanket, thrown over every inch of him. There's nothing that's not bruised, he thinks. Even his face feels hot and swollen, especially the cheek that was crushed against the floor.

Prompto takes a staggering step toward the throne, and then another.

Behind him, Gladio snarls: "Why don't you take someone who'll give you a real fight, you bastard?"

And Ignis says, "Is Prompto injured?"

"Not much," Ardyn says, "just yet, at any rate."

Prompto takes another step, and another. He starts to climb the stairs. This feels like some strange, disjointed half-memory: an abandoned place, and Ardyn's smile, and pain thrumming through him with every motion.

He should have had a better plan than this. He should have thought this through, until he had something more substantial than "keep him on the throne and get close to him."

He's halfway up the stairs, then; time seems to judder and twitch around the edges, and then he's almost at the top. He could have used those extra seconds. He doesn't know what he's doing. Astrals, he can't even _breathe_.

He stares out over his friends, kneeling down on the polished floor below the throne. He takes in every tiny detail: Ignis' face, intelligent and alert, the scars from Altissia like a mottled star over his eye; Gladio, expression dark with rage and alive with intent, teeth bared in a helpless grimace; Noct, struggling frantically to break free, still suffused by the pale glow of the Armiger. If he could get clear of the spell, Prompto has no doubt, he'd bury thirteen weapons into Ardyn's smug face in the blink of an eye. 

"Well?" says Ardyn, beside him, almost gently. "On your knees."

It's Noct that interrupts. Noct who calls out, almost frantically: "What do you want? Stop – stop _hurting_ him. I'll give you what you want."

It's enough to take Ardyn's attention, just for a moment.

It takes Prompto's, too – but when he looks out over the throne room, this time, it's not empty anymore. There are men and women here now, larger than life, the ghostly shape of their armor a glimmer of blue light in the ancient chamber of kings. They're all facing forward. Every pair of gauntlets holds a weapon clasped, reverently, as though in wait.

Prompto gapes, eyes huge, hands trembling. But when he blinks, the sight is gone. His friends are the only ones here.

All at once, he has a better plan.

"Hey, Noct," he says. And he curls his good hand into a fist – mimes swinging. 

Ardyn misses it. He isn't looking where he needs to be at the right time.

But Noct – Noct sees. His eyes narrow in sudden understanding. He nods, once, sharp and intent.

The glow from the Armiger grows suddenly brighter. Around Noct, the weapons of long-dead kings shift and glimmer like constellations, hanging there in the air. They're at his disposal now – ready for the taking.

Prompto recalls battles ten long years in the past. He recalls standing beside his friends, each of them with a royal arm in hand. He recalls a time when the king and his retainers roamed the land of Lucis, young and full of hope.

Prompto reaches out a hand.

Once upon a time, he would've helped himself to the Bow of the Clever. He would've stayed to the Sword of the Wise, slender and light and easy to wield.

Not today.

Today when his fingers search out the magic that flows through Noct's veins, they close around the hilt of a weapon he's only ever wielded in dreams.

The Mace of the Fierce is not heavy, the way it was on Mt. Ravatogh when he carried it from the tomb. It thrums in his hands like a livewire. It feels good – electric, like the air before a summer storm. It swells in his lungs; he can taste it on his tongue. Prompto breathes in, and the feel of it drowns out the pain.

Ardyn is just beginning to turn, brow furrowed.

Prompto doesn't give him time. He puts the mace back over his shoulder – needs his broken arm to brace it, but he doesn't care. The pain is nothing.

When the mace connects, Ardyn shrieks like a daemon – like some writhing thing bubbling away in sunlight. He claws at his own face, and Prompto is suddenly aware that the air is heavy and thick, the way it gets before an Astral arrives. Ardyn's eyes have taken on a strange red-purple glow; light motes dance in the air, the way they do before Noct calls on one of the Six.

"You think you're so clever," Ardyn hisses. "Shall we see how you stand up before a god, all on your own?"

But Prompto isn't even looking at Ardyn anymore. He's staring past him, at the place where a man stands, solemn and still – larger than life, wreathed in ghostly blue light.

The man's face, fully bearded, is composed. His armor is precise and detailed, and when he reaches out to take the mace from Prompto's hand, Prompto lets it go.

Below them, the ring of the Lucii is glowing on Noct's finger, bright and then brighter. Noct makes a strangled sound of pain; his hands make fists against the floor, white-knuckled and straining.

And there beside the throne, a long-dead king draws back his mace. 

When he swings it forward, the crunch it makes when it strikes Ardyn's chest echoes through the chamber. Then the weapon slips inward, until it's absorbed, and all at once, the red-purple glow flickers out from Ardyn's eyes. The light motes fade from the air. The corpses hanging from the ceiling blink out like candles in a breeze, illusion broken.

And the spell holding Noct and the others wavers and fades.

"No," Ardyn whispers – but the dead do not listen.

A woman comes next. Her armor is gleaming, brushed to perfection. Her helmet exposes a portion of her face, and her eyes flicker sideways, just for a moment, to glance at Prompto. Then she lifts her crossbow and fires off a bolt.

One by one they come, regal and determined and long buried. 

One by one, they impale the man seated on the throne.

At long last, only a single king remains. He has a neatly groomed beard, and a knee brace, and lines by his eyes. When he smiles, Prompto knows, his smile is kind.

"Dad?" says Noct, shaky and hoarse.

When Prompto turns to look, he sees that Noct's on his feet again, halfway up the steps to the throne. The ring on his finger still glows, and his free hand is still clutching at it as though it pains him, but it doesn't slow his progress. He takes the stairs two at a time, until he's standing shoulder to shoulder with Prompto, beside his father.

King Regis inclines his head, as though in acknowledgement – then he turns back to the task at hand.

The Sword of the Father takes Ardyn in the heart. It drives him back into the throne and pins him there, the blade mercilessly sharp. Ardyn's blood isn't a warm, bright red; it's black, thick and viscous. His chest heaves a few more times, and then it goes still. 

Noct's father releases the sword. He holds a hand out, solemn and expectant.

For a moment, Prompto only looks at him, not understanding. But Noct does. Noct places his own hand in the offered palm.

King Regis slips the Ring of the Lucii from his son's finger, every motion gentle, almost reverent. He sets it on the arm of the throne. And there, returned to its rightful place, the ring crumbles. 

The gleaming metal and dark glint of gemstone crackle and fade to dust – and beside it, like a daemon in the morning light, Ardyn begins to bubble, skin blackened and writhing. A sort of mist rises from him, toxic purple, in first a trickle and then a stream and then a gushing river. When at last it stops, nothing remains except for the outline of his clothes, a hollow reminder there on the throne.

All is still.

King Regis smiles, and the expression is as kind as Prompto remembers from a long-ago dinner when a very young, very awkward boy was half out of his mind with worry that he'd use the wrong fork.

Then Noct's father fades from view, like a dream dissipating with the light of morning.

All is still.

Prompto stares at the now-empty throne, wide-eyed and a little dazed. 

There are places inside of him that should be overwhelmed with emotion right now, but when he prods them, cautiously, he feels nothing but a distant sort of disbelief.

All is still.

The silence goes on and on: the respectful sort of silence that comes in a temple, or a tomb. Noct reaches out, with deliberate solemnity, to retrieve his father's sword.

"I think we're done here," he says.

Prompto catches sight of it out of the corner of his eye: a flash of white, a hint of motion. When he looks up, he expects to find a small, white dog waiting by the door out of the throne room.

She isn't there, but the path is clear. The door is open, wide and inviting.

Prompto swallows against the sudden tightness in his throat.

"Yeah," he says, and his voice feels scraped raw. "I think you're right."

Every step down from the throne feels like one step back into reality, after waking from a dream. First, his hands start to tremble. Then every breath begins to burn. By the time Prompto's standing on solid ground, his broken arm throbs in time with his heartbeat. He'll need an elixir, but they'll have to set it, first. 

Later, Prompto tells himself. Later.

Ignis says, "If you're all quite done being mysterious, it might be nice to actually know what's happened."

Noct's eyes are too bright, and he keeps touching the place where the ring used to be. Prompto feels like the words have all been burned out of him, every last syllable.  So Gladio starts talking, a low rumble that sketches in the details: monarchs of days gone by, and the ring, and Noct's father. 

He talks while they cross the throne room. He talks while they step outside of it. He talks while they trail to the front of the Citadel, past high halls with paintings of a prophecy that's been fulfilled.

When at last they reach the door, he falls silent.

"Ah," says Ignis, and his voice is subdued. "My thanks, Gladio."

That's the last thing anyone says for a long time.

No one speaks a word as Noct leads them from the Citadel.

No one speaks a word as they pass through the high, arched doorway, flanked by statues of solemn women staring out at the city they used to call home. No one speaks a word as they descend the steps that started their journey, so many years before.

No one speaks a word – but there in the east, the sky is changing hue, the ever-present black lightening to something mild and warm. The colors catch in the glistening glass of the buildings, endless reflections of eggshell and cream, heralding the return of the sun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so, so much to everyone who has stuck with me through this fic. It has a been a long haul, and everyone who's taken the time to leave kudos or a comment has my undying gratitude. There will be one final chapter, after this - an epilogue, to tie things up.
> 
> Thank you again, everyone. You've all been incredible.


	18. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been one wild, incredible ride. I want to thank every one of you for sticking with me until the end. Your kudos and comments kept me motivated to get this done, and I can't say how much I appreciate the amazing response.
> 
> Please feel free to follow me on Tumblr - my username there is asidian - for more of my writing, and if you're looking for more FFXV fanfic, I've got other finished pieces and a few more in progress here on Ao3.
> 
> Thanks again, guys. You're the best. <3

The garage smells familiar: motor oil and sage brush.

It's like Cindy somehow managed to pack up the scent of Hammerhead and move it into the middle of Insomnia, every time Prompto steps inside.

But it's about twenty degrees cooler, here in the city, and the dust doesn't roll in off the street the same way. From outside, he can hear the steady drone of the construction crews, and the sun shines in through the open door, making a square patch of light on the concrete ground.

Prompto stands right in the middle of it, letting it warm his back.

It takes maybe five minutes before Cindy opens up the door along the far wall and reappears. She's the same as always: tousled hair and a sweet, crooked smile, a smear of grease across one cheek.

She says, "Didn't mean to keep ya'll waiting. I got your list right here."

Prompto holds out a hand, and she presses the paper into it: some torn-off scrap covered in writing that swoops and swirls, strangely pretty in a careless sort of way.

"Thanks, Cindy," says Prompto. "You're a lifesaver."

"Now, don't you go trying to make a girl blush," she says, and pokes him in the side.

Prompto feels a smile tug at his lips. "No fair blushing over the truth," he tells her. "We'd be months back without you."

Cindy hums thoughtfully. She waggles the torque wrench still in her other hand. "Can't much argue that. What were you boys thinking, trying to put a city back together without jackhammers?"

"We were thinking it'd sure be nice if we had someone who knew how to put together jackhammers." Prompto's eyes fall to the list again – scan down the contents, checking the scrawled completion percentages in the right column. "You're almost done," he says, surprised.

When she shrugs, it's an easy gesture. "Ya'll are gonna spoil me with all this fancy city tech. By the time I pack up and head on home, I'll be downright lazy."

"The wall's down," Prompto points out. "Who's to say you can't take it with you?"

Cindy rubs at her chin. The oil leaves a smear there, too, and she doesn't seem to notice. "I reckon I could, at that."

There's a beat of silence then – a stutter in the conversation. It feels almost familiar. There have been a lot of silences between them, over the years, most of them friendly.

"Hey," says Prompto. "Cindy."

But he can't quite think of what he wants to say, and he licks at his lips, trying to gather the words.

She's watching him, the way she used to when he'd pull up a metal chair in Cid's old garage, each of them with a cup of whiskey in hand. She always had a certain look, eyes crinkled around the edges. It's a soft look, and it sees too much, and Prompto squirms under it now.

"Y'know, I meant that," he finally manages. He picks at his wrist, where the wristband used to be – an old habit, lost and reborn. "Thanks. You really are a lifesaver."

She looks at him for a long moment – really looks.

"Well," she says at last, and reaches out to give his hand a squeeze. "City's gotta have jackhammers."

 

* * *

 

Gladio's outside the Citadel doors, there on the steps where they started and ended their journey. He's standing guard, or at least what passes for standing guard, these days.

When he catches sight of Prompto, he gives his standard, gruff nod of greeting – then he gets a better look, and he snorts a laugh.

"The hell happened to your face?" he says.

Prompto reaches up toward his chin without meaning to – strokes the smooth skin there. It's strange, still, not to have the goatee. "Yeah, sure," he says. "Laugh it up."

And it's Gladio, so of course he doesn't need an invitation. He's already got that smug sort of smirk on his face, the one that means he's about to start teasing. And sure enough: "Lemme guess. His Majesty didn't like the way it prickled in places things shouldn't prickle."

It's kind of unfair. Prompto's survived a daemon apocalypse, but he can still go bright tomato red, like some kid who's barely been kissed.  You'd think a guy would gain a few levels in badass for saving the world, but apparently not. His face never got the memo.

"Dude," says Prompto, entirely too aware of the fact that even his ears are burning. "What happens in the bedroom stays in the bedroom."

Gladio folds his arms and leans back against the Citadel wall, expectant. "So that's a yes."

"Anyway," says Prompto, sure he's somehow even redder. "I better go find Iggy. I got like a hundred and twenty-seven things he wanted me to look into."

One eyebrow lifts. "Staying busy, I guess."

"Oh, man, you've got no idea," says Prompto. "You'll get your turn, though. You're up for construction duty next week."

Gladio's smirk evens out on one side – smooths into something closer to a real smile. "I dunno," he says. "Might be a nice change. Not a whole lot to guard, lately."

Prompto knows what he means.

The night holds no daemons, and the day holds no animals. Maybe in time, what few creatures managed to hole themselves away in pockets and survive will repopulate the wide open spaces, but for now, there's nothing.

In the meantime, the Crownsguard mostly patrols the streets of a city whose population is too small to really need patrolling. There aren't many of them: Gladio and Cor, Monica and Iris. Prompto and Ignis, but most of their time's spent organizing the reconstruction efforts, these days.

They'll need to fill out the ranks, when the city really gets back on its feet.

"Yeah," says Prompto. "Tell me about it. I haven't shot anything but targets in – what, six months now?"

Gladio looks him over.  He says, "Sounds like you need a sparring partner." Only he says it off-handed and casual, like it's no big deal.

It's kind of a big deal. It's been eight years since he's done anything with Gladio for the fun of it.

During the long night, fun was one of the first casualties.

But here they are, standing in the light of day at the start of a new world. There's an olive branch stretched out between them, or as close as Gladio can come to one. All Prompto's got to do is take it.

He feels a smile creeping onto his lips – the old, goofy kind of smile that's still a little rusty.

"You're on, big guy," he says.

 

* * *

 

Iggy's place is fancy, even for the Citadel. He's got an office and a bedroom, a sitting room and a library. He's even got a kitchen, with a gleaming metal stove and a steel refrigerator that Prompto knows, from personal, disappointed experience, won't stick to magnets.

They're standing in that kitchen now, Iggy with his hip resting against the free-standing island and its tasteful granite countertop. In his hands is a fresh cup of coffee. On the counter by Prompto is another.

"Okay," says Prompto. "Are you ready for this?"

Ignis tips his head in Prompto's direction. "Have you ever known me not to be?"

And okay – yeah, fair enough. So Prompto launches right into it.

"We've got four jackhammers, a loader, a bulldozer, and a forklift. Cindy's still working on the concrete mixer and the excavator. The ladies on loan from the power plant are slated to go back tomorrow, and the new crew'll rotate in."

Prompto shuffles the papers in his hands, until the words facing up are his own sloppy scrawl, and not Cindy's. "Speaking of Lestallum. We got fifty-two newbies due in Wednesday. Twenty-seven said they're gonna stay on permanently. Three more said maybe. Five kids in there, so we better get going on the school."

"And find a teacher," Ignis puts in, thoughtfully.

"That, too." Prompto slips a new paper to the front of the stack. He squints down at his own handwriting, mystified for a moment. "Oh," he says. "Right. They found a whole freaking behemoth wedged in the basement of the Six Astrals department store. Who the hell knows how it got in there, but we're not gonna be able to use that place for spare housing, after all. At least, not till they get the bones out."

"Who's to say no one will appreciate a bit of morbid décor?" Ignis quips, tone dry.

"Skull and crossbones, right?" says Prompto, grinning. "We'll tell everyone Noct picked them out. It's practically the royal symbol."

Iggy takes a sip of coffee, the motion almost enough to cover up his smile. "A diplomatic response worthy of the king's betrothed, I'm sure."

"It's a great plan," says Prompto, and tries to ignore the way his face goes hot when he hears the word betrothed. It's still new enough to be novel – to ring in his ears and make his heart beat out of time. "Instead of kitchen appliances, we'll set the newbies up with hunt prizes. What could go wrong?"

Ignis holds his coffee cup between his palms, considering. "I'll draft a summary of possibilities, shall I?"

"How bout no," says Prompto, "If you give me one more paper, I think I'm gonna scream."

Although – actually, come to think of it, he totally has one more paper.

"Crap," says Prompto, and shuffles through his stack again. "Wait – not done yet."

There it is: buried at the bottom of the pile, somehow, even though he swears he was keeping them in order. "Uh, Noct's really set on those bi-weekly meetings. So he's gonna need an agenda, and we're gonna need a seating venue – maybe the Moogle Dome? – and Vyv says he'll put together some kind of newsletter to get the word out, if I take the pics for him. I set him up in the old Times office, since they've got a printing press."

Prompto stares down at his notes. He turns the final page over, just to be sure. "I think that's everything."

"Quite a list," says Ignis.

When Prompto laughs, it's breathless – kind of exhausted, and kind of exhilarated. That strange combination seems to be how he lives his life, these days. "Rebuilding a city's hard work, dude."

"So it is," says Ignis. "Now, you've answered all of my questions but one." He takes a long, contemplative sip of coffee.

"Yeah?" says Prompto. "What's that?"

Ignis lowers the cup. "Have you bothered to stop for lunch?"

Prompto thinks back – remembers passing a street vendor with hot sandwiches and flirting briefly with the idea of eating something. "Uh," he says.

"Breakfast?"

There's an orange on his counter that he was supposed to take with him this morning. It's still there. "Um."

Ignis tilts his head Prompto's way. Prompto's sure it's so that he can read the expression there, mild disapproval mixed with look-what-I-have-to-deal-with exasperation. "Have a seat," says Ignis. "I'll whip something up."

He sets his coffee down and turns for the fridge. Light spills out when he opens it, and the electric hum is soft and reassuring.

It really is a nice kitchen. Everything looks ultra-modern, like some sci-fi novel exploded in the middle of a Duscaen Homes magazine spread. The detached island has a line of stools with gleaming steel bases and sleek black seats, the kind Prompto's adoptive mom always wanted back in the day.

Prompto slides onto one of them, but he says: "I gotta get going pretty soon. Getting behemoth bones out of a department store's serious business."

"So is redesigning a government," says Ignis, "with 90% of its original members dead or missing. But if I can find the time to break for lunch, you can find the time to join me."

Prompto's feet don't touch the floor. He kicks them, and the action puts him in mind of diner stops in the Lucian countryside, the food greasy and filling and good.

Whatever Iggy makes, Prompto knows, will be twenty times better.

 

* * *

 

"Oh, gods," Prompto groans, and flops into bed. "Bureaucracy _sucks_."

The mattress shifts slightly as Noct sits down beside him. "Pretty sure we don't actually have bureaucrats," he says, wryly. "I think I'd know."

"Okay, fine," says Prompto, face muffled by the pillow. "Paperwork sucks."

The mattress moves again as Noct stretches out beside him. His hair's still damp from the shower, and the silk of his pajamas is warm with body heat. An arm wraps around Prompto's waist and draws him in nearer.

"Specs has you filling out forms in triplicate?" he says, entirely too amused.

Prompto waves one hand, a lazy, floppy kind of gesture. "More like writing down everything ever on fifty-seven sheets of paper I can never find when I need them."

Noct huffs a laugh. "You _could_ get a notebook."

Prompto turns his head, so that the pillow's not covering his face anymore. He cracks open an eye. "I shaved my beard for you," he says, mournfully. "And this is what I get in return?"

To be fair, Noct shaved first.

To be even fairer, Noct looks really damn good like this, without the scruffy half-growth, all square jaw and clean face and gentle smile. Prompto's sure that smile's going to be the end of him.

He thinks he'd be okay with it, too. Sweet Six, what a way to go.

"Nah," says Noct, and leans in to press a kiss to the side of his mouth. " _This_ is."

It's an awkward angle for kissing. Prompto's still stomach-down, so he wriggles until he's sideways and pulls Noct in for a better one.

And there it is: the trembling rush of almost-too-much he felt that first time, in his rundown room in Hammerhead. Even on his good days, the disbelief comes and goes in waves – that they're here. That Noct's here.

That they really were just that lucky.

The world's still on shaky legs, sure. The animal population's been decimated. Food's gonna be tight for a while, and the city planning logistics have been a nightmare. They've also kind of got a god out there who legitimately has it in for them, and that – that's probably going to be a problem, somewhere down the line.

But they can worry about it when they get there.

For now, Prompto has this: his best friend, still and always, here beside him.

He throws himself into the kiss. He threads his fingers through Noct's hair, and he runs his fingers up Noct's side, and he has a moment, sharp and bittersweet, when he knows exactly how much he almost lost.

Then Noct cups his face, gently, and for a long time, Prompto stops worrying about anything at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone would like to see a post-epilogue epilogue, someone asked for a follow-up to this fic when I opened up for requests on Tumblr.
> 
> Please check out [ of my drabble collection if you're interested. :)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11685525/chapters/26607702)


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